


The Sex Investigation Squad

by thetimesinbetween



Category: Glee
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Biting, Bondage, Breathplay, Comedy, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Dom!Kurt, Dom/sub, Dominance, Drama, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Friendship, Gen, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Party Games, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Sleepy Cuddles, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Submission, Underage Drinking, Voyeurism, sub!Blaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 78,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetimesinbetween/pseuds/thetimesinbetween
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine has befriended the rest of the New Directions guys. In return, they become obsessed with his and Kurt’s sex life. (They’re pretty sure it doesn’t exist and have agreed that, if it does, it probably involves lots of candles and flower petals. But they need to make sure.) Meanwhile, Kurt and Blaine are in an established, happy, sexual Dom/sub relationship, and they’re getting increasingly desperate because people keep interrupting their time alone. Things…well, things escalate.</p><p>Set in Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bros? Blaine can do bros.

**Author's Note:**

> The Sex Investigation Squad originated with [this prompt](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/38839.html?thread=50229687) on the Glee Kink Meme. It's set in the third season.
> 
> I started writing this fic in October 2012 and finished in July 2014. I got into it thinking that an anon fill on the GKM would be a fun way to get back in the swing of things. I'd never written explicit porn before. I had a basic outline, and I thought it would take a day or two to get through. 
> 
> A year and nine months later, I stand corrected, confused, and very amused. At just over 79,000 words, The Sex Investigation Squad is the longest and probably the most involved thing I've ever written. For someone who thinks of herself as a writer, having my best work be a porn epic is strange to say the least. (The story also very: "Is it comedic? Is it dramatic?", which has been super fun, but also quite strange.) Still, I'm really proud, and I'm overjoyed that so many people stuck with me on this long journey. 
> 
> All right, author out! Enjoy!

In recent weeks, it’s become tradition for some of the guys to stay after glee and chill, either right in the choir room if they’re feeling lazy, or across the school in the weights room if they’re feeling ambitious, or sometimes over at Artie’s place if they’re feeling a Call of Duty marathon coming on. Blaine was leery of the whole thing for a while, at first because Finn blatantly did not want him there and, once they got past that, because Blaine hadn’t really been “bros” with anyone since he was about 12, before he came out. Sure, he’d had a bunch of guy friends at Dalton, but there hadn’t exactly been other options, and anyway half of them were gay or bi and mostly they spent their time together singing. They certainly weren’t what Blaine would call bros. 

So Blaine is a little out of practice at the burping and the back slapping (and the ass slapping, now that’s a real concern…) etc., and he’s a little cautious. But somewhere around the time that he realizes that Puck ribs Finn when Rachel drags him away from their sacred broments exactly the same way that he ribs Blaine when Kurt does the same, Blaine starts to really settle in. And anyway, he genuinely likes Mike Chang. The other guys are fine—funny in the trainwreck way that McKinley often is—but he really does like spending time with Mike. So this can work. 

Bros? Blaine can do bros. He can be a bro. Sure. 

(Kurt thinks the whole thing is slightly hilarious, but Kurt likes to chat with his Dad at the garage, or drive around with Mercedes or Rachel, or catch up on homework at the Lima Bean after glee before hanging out with Blaine, so it all works in the end.) 

Which is how Blaine finds himself sitting in the weight room with the rest—Puck, Sam, Finn, Mike, (no Artie today, since he’s not big on the gym)—after a particularly long workout, talking about sex. 

He really should see this stuff coming ahead of time. 

He joins in the laughter as Puck finishes one of his more obscene stories of the day—this one involved only one woman, a rarity for Puck’s bragging sessions, but more than one dildo, and Blaine just does not want to think about the mechanics—but it fades out when Puck says, “Come on, bros. Do not let me steal the spotlight.” He smirks. “I’m sure you all have something to contribute to our collective spank bank. Finn here has already shared. We now know that, in exchange for his balls, Finn has occasional boob privileges. And about once-yearly access to the rest.” Puck snorts quietly, and Blaine sees Sam pinching his lips together to keep from laughing. Finn huffs a little bit as Puck continues, “And we all know Chang here gets it on the regular from Other-Chang.” They have a moment of silent respect for the vicious hickeys that trail from Mike’s ear down his neck and beneath the loose tank he stripped to for their workout. Puck nods solemnly. “But I think there is more to be heard, my friends.” 

Blaine shifts uncomfortably on the bench, but luckily Puck turns and says, “Samwise?” 

Sam shrugs. “I mean, I don’t really have much. Since Mercedes and me didn’t really work out.”

Blaine nods understandingly and opens his mouth to offer bro-worthy condolences, but Puck raises his eyebrows. 

“I mean, I guess if you want to hear about stripper stuff,” Sam continues. 

“That’s more like it.” Puck offers him a brofist to general approving murmurs, and Sam launches into the story of his first threesome, which seems to have involved considerably more alcohol and considerably fewer orgasms than Blaine would prefer. 

Blaine’s getting increasingly uncomfortable—trying to think of a way to make a good escape joke, maybe one that involves not liking boobs, actually—probably because he doesn’t make a habit of being sexual while surrounded by straight guys. His heartbeat is so loud that it could conceivably be mistaken for a warning drum. He remembers what happens when straight boys realize that he kisses boys. And it involves a few days’ stay in the hospital. And sure, these are his bros, but it’s not an easy impulse to get rid of.

Also he just doesn’t want to talk about sex with anybody but Kurt. He especially doesn’t want to talk about the sex he has with Kurt with anybody but Kurt. It’s too personal. Way, way too—

“So, Blaine. We turn to you, my brother.” 

He freezes. 

Whoops. Too late. 

“Um.” He shifts on the bench and picks at the Velcro on the back of his boxing gloves. “I don’t. Really have anything to add.” 

They all look very unshocked, and Blaine is surprised to find himself a little offended. “I mean, it’s not like you would want to hear from me anyway. For obvious reasons.” Silence. “And I mean, Kurt’s your brother, Finn, so.” 

This is possibly the most awkward conversation he’s had in his life, including his conversation with Kurt about porn. Possibly including the time he tried to come out to Cooper only to have his brother think Blaine was trying out a new character. 

Yeah, he really, really should have seen this coming. 

“Blaine, bro, we’re inclusive and shit now,” Puck finally says expectantly while the rest nod. “It’s cool. I mean, just don’t mention dick too much and I think we’re cool.” 

“Yeah, you’re one of us, man. You can totally talk about sex stuff,” adds Sam. 

There is literally no way to gracefully get out of this. “I think I’ll pass,” Blaine answers, standing up from the bench and tossing his gloves into his locker. 

“Hummel isn’t holding out on you, is he?” Puck asks. “Because seriously bro. Always been a prude.” 

Blaine chokes a little, on a laugh or a snort or sheer discomfort he’s not sure. 

(Kurt was a bit of a prude at one point. About a year ago. Only because of the sheer homophobia that he faced at school, Blaine thinks. But that ship has long, long since sailed, at least when he’s with Blaine, holding him down and fucking him until he’s begging to come.) 

“Yeah, I remember when I tried to talk to him before I had sex with Rachel,” says Finn. “He like put his fingers in his ears and ran away and locked his door and just sang ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ whenever I knocked.” 

“That’s rough, bro,” says Sam. 

“That’s probably because he doesn’t want to hear about his brother having sex with his best friend, Finn,” Blaine points out. He starts to back away. 

“So like, are you getting any, though?” Puck calls after him, but Blaine just tenses the backs of his arms and walks faster. 

Just get away get away get away get away—he doesn’t owe them anything, after all. He doesn’t have to talk about this if he doesn’t want to. 

He hopes Kurt will kiss him (and maybe more) and make it better before he has to head home tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	2. That gay sex element

“The guys were weird today,” Blaine says quietly, fiddling with his bowtie as he follows Kurt up the stairs to his bedroom.

“Mmmm?” Kurt hums as he closes the door softly behind them and pulls Blaine gently into his arms. “Is that what’s got you so jittery?” he asks, squeezing Blaine around the shoulders. “I was thinking you might have just accidentally gotten a shot of espresso in your coffee again.”

Blaine grins against the side of Kurt’s neck, then exhales, long and warm, feeling some of the day’s tension drain out of him. “They kept talking about sex,” he finally whines, embarrassed, nuzzling further into the warm pulse of Kurt’s neck, where he smells like clean clothes and boy and (deliciously) Kurt. 

Kurt chuckles lightly, the rumble of it barely audible except where Blaine’s ear is pressed to his skin. “Since when are you shy about sex, sweetheart?” The teasing lilt to his voice is unmistakable. “I can remember a certain conversation about _those movies_ in this very room, in which you were an all too willing participant—”

Blaine groans and presses his face hard against Kurt’s outer sweater before pulling back to look him in the face. Kurt is calm and steady, his arms still resting heavy and comforting around Blaine’s shoulders. “That was different, though,” Blaine finally says. “I was trying to help. Today, the guys, they…they were prying, I guess. Sharing stories, like, sex stories. And they wanted to hear. About us, I mean.” 

Kurt’s eyebrows, which had been raising steadily throughout Blaine’s little speech, have reached a truly impressive height. “We are talking about the same people, right?” 

“Sam and Finn and Mike and, well, really it was mostly Puck.” 

“Why am I unsurprised that it was mostly Puck,” Kurt mutters, apparently to himself, his eyes flicking to the side. “They wanted to hear about us,” he finally continues, his tone highly skeptical. 

“Mmhm.” Blaine shrugs, the weight of his shoulders still comfortingly heavy where Kurt’s arms are draped around him. “I mean, they were trying to be nice, I think. Act like I’m one of the bros.” 

Kurt’s lips press together and the corners of his eyes crinkle; Blaine knows he’s trying not to laugh. He grins a little, himself, and Kurt lets out a giggle. They’ve discussed the irony and general hilarity of Blaine becoming one of the bros many times, but now that Blaine is actually going through with it they’ve tried to stop making fun quite so much. (Blaine realistically can’t start laughing hysterically every time someone offers him a brofist; sacrifices must be made.)

“So you don’t want to be one of the bros, then…?” Kurt trails off with a questioning tilt of the head. 

“I…kind of do, actually,” Blaine answers, laughing and dropping his head briefly before Kurt strokes from the crown of his head down to the base of his neck, and he raises his face up again. “It’s usually really nice. Weird, but nice. It’s just…” Kurt’s eyes are steady, his fingers now rubbing soothing circles along the back of Blaine’s neck. “I don’t really want to tell them personal details of our sex life. Or…anything about our sex life.” 

Kurt tilts his head, waiting. He knows Blaine too well. 

“I mean, there’s the weirdness of Finn being your brother. But honestly that wouldn’t be any weirder than me hearing about Finn and Rachel,” Blaine adds while Kurt grimaces in sympathy. “Yeah, exactly. Plus there’s the whole ‘gay sex’ element.” 

“So pesky, that gay sex element,” Kurt says lightly. 

Blaine snorts and tries to burrow back against Kurt’s chest, but Kurt holds him where he is. Blaine breathes a little, then continues, “I mean. The thing is, they think you’re…they just…they assume you’re a prude. And not putting out.” 

“Ah,” Kurt says, his face unreadable.

“Which obviously is totally untrue! And…ridiculous. And like…weird that they’re thinking about it.” Blaine, Kurt notices, is getting a little flustered talking about them thinking about it. “So I just, I want to correct them, and I want them to know that we have awesome, awesome sex, but at the same time I don’t want them to like…know.” 

Kurt smiles slowly, pushing a hand back through Blaine’s gel-encrusted hair. “I don’t know what to tell you, sweetheart,” he says. “That’s quite a bind. I’m glad you want to defend me, you know. But you don’t have to.” He leans closer, winding his arms closer and closer around Blaine’s neck. He whispers, “Let them think I’m a prude and you’re a sad, sad gay virgin…you and I know better, don’t we, love?” and Blaine shudders against him.

Kurt could probably whisper a grocery list in his ear and get that reaction. He just…loves when Kurt’s voice gets breathy like that. It always means good things. 

(Sometimes, when Kurt comes really hard, his voice stays breathy like that for a while afterwards and Blaine always gets hard again listening to it, and it used to be so, so embarrassing but now Kurt knows and he just grins knowingly, pleased as a cat with its cream, and pounces on Blaine again, and Blaine really, really loves coming more than once in a row, so now it’s no trouble at all. Except that Kurt sometimes gets breathy when he works out or dances strenuously, which is still very inconvenient for Blaine.)

Kurt pulls back a little so that he can see Blaine’s face again, and asks, “This is the first time this has been an issue, right? Them prying about sex?” Blaine nods. “Then I’d say, don’t worry about it too much for now, okay, sweetheart?” Blaine nods. “You seem much calmer already,” Kurt observes, his cheeks a little flushed. 

“That’s what happens when you hold me,” Blaine murmurs. 

“Mmm,” Kurt agrees, moving back in to press light kisses along Blaine’s cheekbone. “I like to hold you,” he whispers into his ear. 

Blaine shudders again, turning his face until he can finally, finally get Kurt’s lips on his own. He opens his mouth immediately—and he is, from the physical closeness or the (god, delectable) smell of Kurt or their intimacy or just from Kurt’s breath in his ear or from the smooth slide of Kurt’s tongue into his mouth, suddenly a little desperate, his knees shaky and his hands trembling where they grip at Kurt’s back. Kurt gentles the kiss, sliding his tongue slowly along Blaine’s own, a slick glide of wet heat that makes Blaine gasp air straight out of Kurt’s mouth—and then Kurt gentles the kiss further and further until it’s just soft presses of lips against lips, Blaine pulling in gulps of air between kisses, not realizing that Kurt has been moving him gently backward until his back is to the door. 

He immediately slumps against it, whining “Kurt” softly against Kurt’s lips, pulling at Kurt’s back or perhaps his shirt.

“What is it, sweetheart?” asks Kurt, sounding infinitely more put together than Blaine himself, but the flush high in his cheeks and the firm grip he has in Blaine’s hair and at the nape of his neck tell another story. 

Blaine’s hips rock up a little, a scant inch from where Kurt’s thigh is placed between them. “Just…please…” and his hands pull at Kurt’s back again.

“All right, all right, all right,” Kurt murmurs all at once, taking Blaine’s hands and raising them and crossing them at the wrist and pressing them firmly against the door over Blaine’s head. Blaine positively whimpers, trying to lurch forward and get Kurt’s lips on his again, but no such luck: Kurt pulls back slightly with a quiet tut. “Stay,” he says, and Blaine sinks back against the door with a long exhale. 

“Good,” Kurt adds, moving in again once Blaine is settled back against the door. “Very, very good,” he whispers in Blaine’s ear, ignoring the way that Blaine’s knees briefly give out except for the slightly harder press of his hands against Blaine’s where they’re crossed above his head until Blaine gets his balance again. Kurt’s hands trail from where they had been tangled with Blaine’s, gliding oh so lightly over the sensitive exposed insides of Blaine’s forearms, then his biceps—Blaine, already shivering all over, arches a little toward Kurt, whose eyes glint with amusement and lust, his hands still trailing down, now over Blaine’s shoulders and in, finally coming to rest lightly but firmly around his neck. 

“Please, please,” Blaine breathes, still feeling the phantom trail of Kurt’s fingers down his exposed arms. 

Kurt leans in and presses one solid kiss beneath Blaine’s jaw, where a hickey from a few days ago is still fading. Blaine gasps and tilts his head back, stretching out his neck for Kurt’s eager eyes. 

“Of course,” Kurt says, finally, and his fingers work lightly at the bowtie (textured purple today, one of Kurt’s favorites) binding Blaine’s warm, flushed throat. When it’s undone, Blaine exhales again, slow, so slow, before tipping his head even further back, feeling Kurt’s warm quick breaths along his throat.

“Good, good,” Kurt sighs, making Blaine flush, and then he’s sliding the bowtie through Blaine’s collar (god, even the warm slide of it against Blaine’s neck through the fabric feels erotic) until it’s off entirely. Kurt tosses it aside, onto his bed, and pops open the top button of Blaine’s polo, exposing a dark hickey. 

Kurt presses close again, his thigh just a whisper away from where Blaine’s cock is hard in his pants. He hesitates for the shortest breath of a moment, then leans closer, runs his open lips from Blaine’s jaw back behind his ear, sucks the lobe into his mouth (Blaine cries out so beautifully when he does that), and breathes “And what if they saw you like _this_?” 

Blaine’s eyes roll back in his head—god, he’d never thought, never even, just—“Please, please, Kurt,” he whimpers, not even sure what he’s begging for, the fantasy or the way Kurt’s lips trailing down his neck, his breath so close now—

“Yes,” Kurt answers, and then, yes, _yes,_ his lips are just there, sucking right there, in the dip between Blaine’s collarbones, right where the knot of his bowtie rests every day, right where there has been an obvious hickey on and off (more on than off) for months now, ever since they discovered exactly how sensitive Blaine is there. 

Blaine keens, pushing his head and the backs of his wrists against the door to get Kurt’s lips there harder—and, oh god, he’s sucking harder and then—jesus—nipping and scraping his teeth against the thin skin as Blaine’s hips rock stutter obscenely, so close to the temptation of Kurt’s thigh—and then Kurt’s mouth is opening properly, his tongue laving over where his teeth have reddened Blaine’s skin, and Blaine moans, a full moan that makes the thin skin where Kurt’s lips press vibrate, and Blaine’s eyes are rolling back in his head, he wishes more than anything to have Kurt’s weight on top of him and his thigh between his legs so he could just grind and rub and writhe and come—

“Kurt,” Blaine breathes when Kurt draws back for a moment. 

“Hmm?” Kurt answers. “What do you want, sweetheart?” 

Blaine opens his mouth, about to spill the (rather tame) fantasy that had just unspooled in his head, but—

“Boys! Three minutes until dinner!” comes Carole’s voice.

Kurt and Blaine’s eyes widen comically, and Kurt’s head whips around to see the clock on his bedside table—it reads 6:36. “How did it get so late?!” he exclaims quietly but incredulously, drawing back and stripping off his outer sweater—he’s much, much too warm for it now that Blaine has been moaning and pleading for him. He looks back, and Blaine is still standing dazed and hard with his wrists crossed above his head against the door. 

“Blaine, sweetheart. Baby. We have to eat now, we have to fix up,” he says, putting a cooling palm to Blaine’s damp, flushed cheek. 

“I know, I know,” Blaine rushes out, quickly uncrossing his arms and stepping off the door. “Sorry.” 

Kurt raises his eyebrows, giving his boyfriend an obvious once-over, from mussed hair to red cheeks to the dark, wet hickey at the base of his neck to his dick hard in his skinny jeans. He does up the top button of Blaine’s polo again and says softly, “Don’t be. I don’t mind.” 

He grins when Blaine grumbles (something like “ _stop oh my god I have to look your family in the face in two minutes_ ”) and saunters into his en suite bathroom to splash cool water on his rather pink face. 

Prude, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	3. Something slightly illegal

A few weeks later, Blaine has practically forgotten about the locker room sex conversation. (It is much less traumatic in retrospect, or so he tells himself.) This is not so much by force of will as it is sheer stress—with Regionals coming up, he’s hardly had time for sleep or Kurt, let alone time for Mike and Puck and the rest. 

It comes as a welcome reprieve, then, when Mr. Schuester comes down with an awful head cold last minute and can’t run Saturday evening practice. Rachel tries to insist (via increasingly hyperbolic texts) that they hold rehearsal anyway, but between the stony silence of the majority of the club, Kurt and Mercedes’ pleading, and Artie’s faux-solemn insistence that it’s safer for them to keep away in case one of them too has the dreaded head cold, she relents. 

Blaine wants nothing more than to make dinner with Kurt and then curl up for about twelve hours of sleep in his arms, but Kurt and Mercedes have already decided to throw Rachel a Calm the Fuck Down sleepover (as Kurt informs him via text with about ten frowny-face emoticons tacked on) and Blaine soon receives his own invitation to join Mike, Finn, Puck, Sam, and Artie at Artie’s place for video games and pizza and “general broness.” 

And so it is that, nine or ten hours later, after the last round of Super Smash Bros is played and the last pizza boxes have been shoved to the edges of the room to make room for six sprawling boys and their pillows (including Artie, who claims the couch), that Blaine finds himself in the middle of a risky discussion yet again. 

“But it wasn’t like I meant to!” insists Puck. “I mean, she shoved my dick out of her mouth _as I was coming_ , where did she expect it to end up?” 

Blaine, sitting crosslegged and leaning on Artie’s couch, just buries his face in his pillow as Mike answers, “Just think about it from her perspective, Puck. I mean—look—Tina said she’d try it one time, and you should have seen her face afterward.”

“Covered in your jizz? No thanks, man.” Puck shoves at Mike’s shoulder, knocking him into a groggy Sam on Mike’s other side. 

Blaine, who never really wanted to experience the visual of Tina with come all over her face, shudders further into his pillow, feeling more and more like a turtle by the minute. 

“I mean, yeah, that, but otherwise she looked like a baby eating a lemon or something. She practically ran out to get it off and then I spent the rest of the day doing oatmeal-honey facemasks with her.” Blaine glances up; Mike is scrunching his nose adorably. 

“Rough,” Finn nods, and Blaine emerges a little more from his pillow to look over at him—Blaine remembers the chaos that was Rachel’s attempt to have spa day with Finn, as well as the frightening near-purple hue that Kurt’s face turned when he found sticky facemask remnants on the sofa in the living room. 

“Still don’t get how getting it on her face could be worse than getting it down her throat,” Puck grumbles.

“Just different,” Mike shrugs. 

“Yeah, like, some people want to lick feet, or whatever,” Sam pipes up. 

Puck throws Sam a ‘for real, bro?’ sort of glare before shaking his head, still muttering disagreeably. Unfortunately, it is halfway through one of these headshakes that his eyes alight on Blaine. 

Blaine’s eyes widen in apprehension, and he tries to shrink back between the couch and his pillow, but Puck is already leaning toward him—“Blaine! My main man. Blaine, you love cock, and therefore jizz, don’t you?” Blaine is frozen, but he feels his face heating up. “So you have the final word on this shit. Am I right, Finnocence?” Finn, also looking somewhat horrified (or confused? Blaine has trouble distinguishing Finn’s few facial expressions), gives Puck a blank stare. “Unless you got something to tell us, buddy?” Puck nudges Finn, who shakes his head automatically. “Good. Finn remains in the clutches of Berry’s microscopic tits. No surprise there.” He turns back to Blaine with gusto. “So. We turn to you, newest bro. Andergay. Amigo. Sucker of cock. Help a brother out.” 

They’re all looking at him. Even Mike looks genuinely curious. Blaine gets the strange urge to break out into song—he is, after all, usually singing when this many people are staring at him—he’s also exhausted—but he resists, thinking it wouldn’t go over quite as well with this crowd as it would with Kurt and the girls. Instead, he says, “Um,” and clears his throat awkwardly when his voice comes out raspy, continuing “What…exactly are you asking?”

He gets the immediate feeling that he just dug himself into an even deeper hole. 

“Jizz, broski. Swallow, spit, or on the face?” Puck leers. 

“And: is it really that bad if it gets on your face?” Artie clarifies from his perch on the couch, squinting in the semidarkness at Blaine curled up near his feet. 

“Oh,” Blaine answers weakly. 

Yep. Definitely just dug himself into a hole. Let’s be real, he’s basically dug himself into _Dark Knight Rises’s_ pit. 

The problem is he still really, really doesn’t want to talk about his and Kurt’s sex life. He envies the way that Mike seems so comfortable presenting himself as a sexual being, his relationship as a sexual relationship. It’s probably more adult, Blaine thinks, to be so comfortable and open. 

That said, Blaine is comfortable and open—at least like 99% of the time, they do still have their snags—with Kurt. Only with Kurt. They have a certain trust that Blaine doesn’t have with anyone else, doesn’t want to have with anyone else. Besides, sex isn’t just sex for them. Not that sex is just sex for Mike and Tina—Blaine really doesn’t know and doesn’t think it’s his business to ask. But sex, for Kurt and Blaine…it’s special. It’s about the physical stuff, sure, the urgency in their lips and the buzz at the pit of his stomach and Kurt’s breath coming faster and faster in his ear and his limbs sliding sweat-slick over Kurt’s. But it’s about other stuff, too. It’s about the way Kurt held Blaine’s face in his hands and locked eyes with him when they made love the first time. It’s about the whispered _I love yous_ between thrusts. It’s about the relieved breath Blaine releases every time Kurt slides Blaine’s bowtie off and presses a kiss where it sat tight around his throat. It’s about the sense of absolute safety Blaine has with Kurt, no matter what they’re doing. It’s about the way Kurt can make a bite feel like a kiss, and a kiss feel like a benediction. It’s about the way they hold each other afterwards, clinging, gentle but firm, curled up in each other, playing with one another’s fingers and hair, as long as they possibly can, reluctant to leave their own little safe warm sweet world behind. 

It’s about love. It’s about trust and love. 

Blaine isn’t ready to broadcast that. He doesn’t think Puck is really looking for that anyway. 

And. Well. If Blaine is being honest, the other thing is that the whole time this conversation has been going on, Blaine has been thinking about (or, rather, trying not to think about) how much he fucking adores sucking cock. This would be awkward to communicate to anyone, let alone a room full of straight high school boys. But Blaine just…loves it. He just really, really does. He loves Kurt, and he loves Kurt’s dick, and he loves sucking Kurt’s dick. He loves the smell and, yes, he loves the taste. He loves it in any position, but most of all he loves kneeling for Kurt, loves unlacing Kurt’s boots and peeling off his skintight pants and mouthing at his cock through his boxer-briefs until Kurt’s own knees buckle (a rarity) and he has to shove Blaine off and shove down his underwear and shove his cock past Blaine’s lips, hot along the roof of his mouth, and sometimes (as Blaine gets better and better at it), down his throat. 

Blaine shivers. God, last weekend—notably, the only time in the last three weeks they’ve had enough alone time together to make one another come—Kurt had let him kneel to blow him. Blaine had been working himself further and further down on Kurt’s cock, but halfway through, just as Kurt’s cock started to nudge teasingly at the back of his throat, Kurt had pulled him up and off his cock, had filled Blaine’s open mouth with tongue instead before pushing him roughly back onto the bed. Blaine had hardly caught his breath, and he’d opened his eyes to find Kurt clicking open the lube and nearly lost it right there, whining shamelessly. God, it had been so long, he just wanted Kurt to fuck him, wanted to be filled up—

Kurt had shushed him, of course—Finn was just next door, clearly they were getting desperate—and poured some lube into his hand and got to work jacking Blaine off, his hand slick and deliciously not-quite-enough. He apologized again and again into Blaine’s ear, “I know you want to be fingered, baby—god—I know you want to be fucked—I know, I know, but we don’t have time, we just—” until finally Blaine gathered enough strength in his arms to yank Kurt’s mouth down to his and kiss him deep and pant into his mouth and respond, incoherently, something like “no no no no no Kurt Kurt—this—this is so good—Kurt this is so—yes—” Finally Kurt got the idea and kissed Blaine hard, pushing his head back to the pillow and taking his lube-free hand to push Blaine’s arms back over his head, before abandoning Blaine’s needy mouth to work down his neck and over his collarbones to his nipples, where he kissed and licked and nipped and finally bit until Blaine was keening, keening and arching and pushing helplessly into the wet channel of Kurt’s hand. When Kurt tightened his hand infinitesimally, twisted at the head, and bit viciously at Blaine’s nipple, Blaine came hard all over both of them, gasping.

And then, with Blaine still riding out the aftershocks, Kurt had clamored shakily up the bed and knelt over Blaine’s face, only pausing to ask breathlessly “Okay?,” his cock already rubbing over Blaine lips before Blaine panted out “ _Yesyesyes._ ” Then Kurt was shoving into his mouth, shoving down his throat, and Blaine was just—open. Open and taking it, taking everything Kurt gave him, god, Kurt was everything he could see and hear and feel and smell, Kurt was moaning quietly above him, clutching the headboard and riding Blaine’s face, cock sliding hot and hard and perfect into Blaine’s throat—choking him a little, but god it was good, why was that so goddamn good—again and again, and Blaine could hardly think he was so fucking turned on, his cock aching trying to get hard again. 

Just a few thrusts later, Kurt pulled out with a low, long moan and came all over Blaine’s face, then rubbed his twitching cock along the strong line of Blaine’s jaw, and just—the hot sticky claiming shock of it on his face _on his face_ —and Kurt was leaning down not to kiss him but to _lick it off—jesus_ —and it only took two strokes of Blaine’s hand over his still-slick cock before he was coming a second time, pushing his mouth up to pull last of Kurt’s come right back out of Kurt’s own mouth—

“Blaine, bro, you still with us?”

Blaine shakes himself out of the memory, his face beet red now, and hard under the pillow to boot. “…Yeah,” he answers.

“Well?” says Artie. 

“Can I just…no comment? I just—I—this is—” he buries his face in his pillow. Everything had been going so well these last several hours, and now this. 

“Yeah, man,” comes Mike’s gentle voice from across the circle. “You’re fine. You don’t have to say anything.” 

Blaine glances up just in time to see Puck shoot Mike a glare, and Mike shrug casually back. 

Thank god his erection has gone down, because this is the perfect time to make a break for it. “I’m, um, just going to run to the bathroom, then. Does anybody want chips or soda or anything from upstairs?” he asks. Everybody shakes their heads, and Blaine scampers out of the room, shutting the bathroom door behind him with a relieved sigh.

*

“So, for real bros, that was the second time that’s happened—Blanderson is clearly not getting any. At all.” Puck announces as soon as Blaine is out of earshot. He pauses dramatically. “No surprise there,” he adds.

Finn, Sam, and Artie nod solemnly. 

“We have to help a brother out,” Puck says, leaning forward. 

“…Or we could just leave it,” Mike points out. “I mean, it’s not really our business.”

“True,” adds Finn eagerly. 

“God, shut up, you pussies,” Puck groans. “Jesus. Moses. Whatever. I need something slightly illegal to do or I’m going to go stir crazy and end up back in juvie. Do you people want me back in juvie?”

Shaking heads all around. 

“Then let’s do this shit.” 

Artie leans forward, nodding. “Let’s. For the sake of Puck’s criminal record and Blaine’s sanity. I propose step one: Assess the situation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	4. Sexvestigation, really?

Artie has, unusually, joined them for a morning workout in the weight room. He tilts back on his wheelchair and somehow manages to look down his nose at them all. “Okay, so everyone understand their assignments for phase one? Mike? Puckerman?”

“Yeah,” affirms Mike, coming up from where his nose had been pressed to his shins.

“I got this,” adds Puck. He’s doing free weights in some vaguely dangerous way, as usual; the rest of the boys give him a wide berth. He lets one weight clang to the ground and ignores the way everyone else winces, Sam startling so hard that he nearly drops the barbells he’s lifting. “Sexvestigation is a go.”

Artie frowns. “‘Sexvestigation,’ really?”

“Well, we’re not going to call it ‘Figure Out If Anderson Likes It Up the Ass,’ are we?” 

Finn squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head down uncomfortably, concentrating harder on his crunches. 

“What about ‘Operation Kurt-and-Blaine’?” suggests Artie, the beginnings of his dictatorial director’s gleam in his eyes.

“That’s friendly,” Sam offers, sitting up to switch out his weights. 

“If we’re gonna be cutesy about it, we might as well go with ‘Rescue Poor Virgin Blai—’” Puck cuts himself off as the door swings open and Blaine steps in, stopping short when all five of the other boys turn to stare at him. 

An awkward silence ensues. “ _Hey,_ man,” Finn finally says. 

“Hey,” Blaine says warily, taking another tentative step in, swinging his duffel bag from his shoulder. “What’s up?” 

“Nothing,” says Artie, landing from his most recent wheelie with a clatter. “Nothing at all.”

“Right,” says Blaine, hovering where he stands. 

“You want the bag, man?” Mike finally asks, giving it a slight push. 

“Yeah,” Blaine answers, still giving them all weird looks but stepping into their rough semicircle nonetheless. When he’s wrapped his hands and warmed up enough, and starts punching the bag in earnest, zoning in, Finn lets out a relieved sigh, and Puck and Artie raise their eyebrows at one another, the same thought on their minds:

_The Sex Investigation Squad is so on._

* 

A few hours later, when Kurt is switching out his books between second and third period, Puck saunters up and leans behind him.

“Hey, Hummel.”

Kurt visibly startles—it’s a reflex he hasn’t quite lost yet, especially when Puck is in his letterman jacket—but quickly recovers, giving Puck a disdainful once-over before shutting his locker firmly. 

“Puckerman,” he answers with a raised eyebrow, starting down the hallway toward third period. Puck is an odd one. From physical bullying to apparent acceptance to occasional quasi-friendship in the choir room since the year started, they’ve covered a good bit of ground, but Kurt’s still never quite sure which Puck he’s going to get. He may have stopped being a total asshole, but he’s still, well…Puck

Point in case: “As the resident sex guru, Hummel, it is my responsibility to ask: are you tapping that?” 

Kurt’s quick stride loses its rhythm for a moment, but he recovers. “…What.” 

“Have you sucked my bro Blaine’s dick yet? Taken the chocolate speedway? Do you sa—”

Kurt comes to a full stop and faces Puck. “Stop. Shut. Up. Don’t ask. It’s none of your business.”

“Bu—”

“Have a good day, Noah.” 

“…Fuck,” Puck sighs, watching Kurt disappear into the next classroom. How does he manage to make “have a good day” sound like “fuck you bitch”? …And how the hell had he evaded Puck’s brilliant investigative plan?

* 

The rest of the week is so insane that hardly anyone in Glee talks to anyone else, even though they’re all in rehearsal together 24/7. They’re taking the week to get down the entire (complicated, frustrating, long) dance to “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” so that they can focus on vocals later. Nationals is getting closer every day, and everyone is pretty keyed up, even Puck, who keeps talking about all the pussy he’s going to get in New York but actually works just as hard on “Paradise” as everyone else. Rachel and Mr. Schue, meanwhile, have long since surpassed “keyed up” and entered “neurotic slavedriver,” so even when everyone takes five, mostly all the club has energy for is water and leaning on one another. (Though Puck did find the presence of mind at some point to text the Bros-sans-Blaine _no luck on hummel. fuckin brick wall._ ) Even after rehearsals, there hasn’t been time for much of anything. Kurt and Blaine tend to just kiss and chat for a few minutes in one or the other’s car in the parking lot and then head to their separate homes, frustratingly turned on but too exhausted and overworked to do much about it. They haven’t had time or energy for actual sex—or an actual, full conversation—since the previous weekend.

Mike is probably the only person happy with the current state of affairs. For one, he loves having a whole week just to dance. He’s taking a slightly perverse pleasure in watching everyone else struggle through (and slowly, with his help, learn) the moves he can execute with absolute precision…rather the way he struggles through singing-specific weeks. (Sweet revenge.) He also loves that Tina’s sore muscles are best healed by long, hot baths, which she lets him share provided he massage her afterwards in payment for putting her through what she calls (with a fond if pained smile) “Hell camp.” 

But more importantly, the insanity of the week has given Mike the flexibility to choose just the right time to approach Blaine—the rest of the Sex Investigation Squad is so busy that they haven’t been pressuring him to hurry up. And Mike knows that the longer he waits, the further that awkward moment in the locker room (and the awkward sex conversation at the sleepover…and the other awkward moment in the locker room…) will be from Blaine’s mind. 

Finally, on Friday, he sees his opening. Rachel has cornered Kurt—Mike can’t tell if it’s a best-friend kind of cornering or a crazy-Rachel-slavedriver kind of cornering—so Blaine heads out to the water fountain alone. Mike follows, loping over just as Blaine comes up from the water. 

“Hey, man,” he says with a smile, leaning up against the wall. 

“Hey,” Blaine answers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh my god, how are you still standing right now?”

“Sixteen years of dance experience,” Mike answers cheerily, pulling his leg up to stretch where his hamstring is starting to twitch. “You’re not so bad, though. Your turns are really shaping up.” 

Blaine grins. “Thanks, man,” he says. “I’ve been trying, believe me.” 

Mike claps him on the back and leads him a little down the hallway, away from the backstage entrance where someone could emerge and interrupt them at any moment. “I appreciate that.” 

They come to a stop, Blaine giving him a curious but relaxed look. 

“I wanted to ask you about something,” Mike says. 

“Shoot,” Blaine answers. 

“How is your sex life?”

As far as Mike knows, Blaine has always appreciated honesty. It’s worked for him so far. 

But as he watches, Blaine closes up, his shoulders shifting forward and his hand coming up to rest over the base of his throat. 

“Mike—” he starts hesitantly, and Mike can tell he’s about to get shut down. 

“Just, as your friend—I don’t want to like get all the details out of you, man, that would be weird. Just—are you—satisfied?”

Blaine actually chokes. 

“I mean—like—are you happy? That’s all I—”

Blaine looks up at him and quickly away. “I just—sorry Mike, I just really don’t want to talk about this. Kurt and I are perfectly fine, don’t worry.” And he walks quickly away, disappearing backstage. 

Mike lets out a long sigh, falling back against the wall. That tells him nothing. Fuck.

* 

That evening, after Hummel-Hudson Friday Night Dinner followed by some truly spectacular sex (especially considering how sore they are from dancing), Kurt and Blaine are curled together in Kurt’s bed, sticky and sated and not even slightly inclined to move. They’d been so relieved to have enough time and privacy to touch one another that they’d started making out before Burt and Carole (headed to a movie for date night) and Finn (also supposedly headed to a “movie” with Rachel, though Kurt had heard different from Rachel herself that afternoon) had even left—which was usually by mutual agreement absolutely Not Allowed. They usually kept themselves to small touches, light cuddling, and the briefest kisses while anyone else was in the house, not just because it made them uncomfortable to think that anyone might hear (or see) them doing…anything…, but also because they both know perfectly well how quickly things could get out of hand once they got going—once Kurt’s tongue might be in the equation, or Blaine’s quiet whimpers, or a million other things that set them off.

Today, though, they hadn’t been able to resist. There was a whole hour and a half of dead time between when they’d finished cleaning up from dinner and when the rest of the household left, and they hadn’t been able to kiss for more than ten minutes at a time for a week…. So they’d spent the time intertwined on Kurt’s bed, hips carefully apart, just like the first several months of their relationship, exchanging increasingly deep kisses until Blaine’s panting would get too loud, or Kurt would let out an agonized little moan, and they’d have to back off, cool down, watching one another with dark eyes, letting out self-deprecating quiet laughs sometimes, fondly rolling their eyes over how far gone they were for one another, brushing shaky hands through one another’s hair. 

By the time the garage door closed the first time, Kurt had long given up all pretense of innocence and pulled Blaine on top of him, keeping his boyfriend’s hips carefully away from his own with regular tugs to the back belt loop in Blaine’s skinny jeans. Every time he tugged, the inseam of Blaine’s pants would dig into the hard line of his cock, and he’d moan a little into Kurt’s mouth. It was a feedback cycle of arousal that Kurt was loath to end, though Blaine was getting a little loud for having Kurt’s dad and Carole still in the house. Still, Kurt couldn’t quite bring himself to push Blaine off to cool down—Blaine liked having Kurt’s weight pressing him down so much that Kurt almost never managed to get Blaine on top of him, and fuck was it good. Blaine was just as desperate and needy as ever, of course, and the way his back flexed beneath Kurt’s hands, (the way his ass flexed beneath Kurt’s hands when Kurt let himself indulge for just a moment—) the way he positively squirmed, unsure of where to go without Kurt pressing him down, clearly hardly able to handle his own arousal…Kurt would be lying if he said he didn’t have a penchant for holding Blaine down, too, but this had its own sort of deliciousness. And he liked it. He liked it a lot. 

Needless to say, when Burt and Carole were finally gone, it wasn’t long before Kurt had stripped Blaine out of his jeans and polo, as well as his bowtie, and with their usual ritual he darkened the hickey in Blaine’s suprasternal notch—only a shadow after a week without touchups—and left Blaine an incoherent sweaty mess sprawled across his bed sheets. 

After that, it was a matter of torturously light kisses and licks over Blaine’s entire torso and then up the insides of both his legs until Blaine switched from moaning to actually begging—wonderful, wonderful little fragments that Kurt locked away for nights alone, later, little things like a simple please or Kurt or please in me or Kurt I can’t or finally, just before Kurt took pity on him, please Kurt fuck me fuck me please please fuck—

So Kurt fucked him. He fingered him open and got him sopping wet with lube even though Blaine nearly came just from that, and then he fucked him well and hard and long until Blaine came from one stroke down his cock while Kurt bit hard into his collarbone to keep from coming himself, then pulled his own aching cock out (with a ridiculous amount of self-control, he might add). He pushed a hand through Blaine’s messy, sweaty hair for a while, and then pushed down his neck and back and then between his ass cheeks where he was still slick and flushed. It was a mercifully short time until Blaine was ready for him again—Kurt wasn’t sure if his boyfriend’s penchant for coming twice rather than Kurt’s own once was a blessing or a curse, but goddamn was he taking advantage tonight—and Kurt flipped him over so that Blaine’s whole torso lay flat on the bed while his ass tilted up, before sinking his cock back in with a shaky, satisfied sigh, eyes rolling back in his head. 

Now, just a few minutes later, they were well and truly exhausted, and the ache of a week of constant dance practice followed by hours of vigorous sex was setting in. Blaine had shifted under Kurt so that they were front to front, Kurt’s face nuzzled into the side of Blaine’s neck—the most movement they’d managed since they’d come—and Blaine swept his hands over Kurt’s back soothingly, pressing in here or there when something felt tense. 

“How was your week, sweetheart?” Kurt asked a while later, Blaine’s hand still smoothing over his back. 

“Good. Exhausting. I’m so glad we’re done with ‘Paradise.’” 

“Me too,” Kurt says, his eyes fluttering shut. “I ache everywhere.” 

“Part of that is probably the extremely enthusiastic way you just fucked me twice, Kurt,” Blaine laughs, squeezing at the back of Kurt’s neck. 

“Probably,” Kurt acquiesces, grinning into the side of Blaine’s neck. He slides his hand down Blaine’s hand to pinch the side of his ass. “Can you blame me?”

Blaine jumps at the pinch and then giggles—an honest-to-god, high, adorable giggle. “No, not really,” he says. 

“So you agree?” Kurt tilts his face up, trying to catch Blaine’s eyes. “That your ass is delectable?”

Blaine tilts his head down, nuzzling his nose with Kurt’s. “Delectable isn’t the word I would have chosen, but yes.” His eyes are mischievous—and god does Kurt love Blaine like this, sated and happy under him in his bed. 

“What’s the word you would choose, hon?” Kurt asks, raising and eyebrow with all the real sass taken out by his uncontrollable smile. 

“Fuckable,” answers Blaine, holding Kurt’s eyes. 

Kurt’s smile widens. “Fuckable, huh?”

“What, you don’t think so?” Blaine laughs, squeezing Kurt’s side. 

“Oh, I think so,” Kurt answers, hitching up Blaine’s leg so he can get a handful of Blaine’s ass to squeeze. “Yeah. Fuckable.” 

Blaine’s breath catches and he pushes back against Kurt’s hand a little before ducking his head down bashfully. 

“Oh my god, are you kidding?” Kurt laughs fondly, kneading Blaine’s ass. “I just made you come twice, how could you possibly want more?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine moans, embarrassed, and ducks his head further down into Kurt’s. “We couldn’t even, anyway. No more sex today. I ache everywhere. Mike is a crazy person.”

“Maybe in the morning, sweetheart,” Kurt says, nipping lightly under Blaine’s jaw so that he gasps and tilts his head back. 

Blaine’s hand slips from where it had been resting on Kurt’s waist and moves toward his own naked dick, which is just starting to twitch with interest, but Kurt catches his wrist and presses it hard to the bed; the quality of his voice has shifted just a little when he says “No touching. You don’t get to come again tonight.” 

They’d both put orgasm denial on the list of things to try for Blaine when they talked their lists through again maybe a month ago now, mostly because they both like Blaine desperate as fuck. But neither of them had initiated it until now. This is new ground. 

Admittedly, Blaine has already been fucked and come twice tonight, which is not most people’s definition of orgasm denial—but the idea that he can’t come again, that he’s not _allowed_ —

Kurt chuckles into his ear. “You like that, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Blaine nods, still bashful, trying to nuzzle between Kurt’s face and the pillow to hide. 

“Stop that,” Kurt giggles, still holding Blaine’s wrist hard against the mattress, the contrast between his body language and his voice now deliciously sharp. “You don’t have to be embarrassed; we talked about this. Apparently, we like this. This is good.” 

Blaine nods and backs up a bit so he can make eye contact with Kurt. Kurt’s lips curl into a satisfied smile as soon as he sees how blown Blaine’s pupils are. 

“You are insatiable,” he whispers against Blaine’s lips before reeling him in for a quick, deep kiss. 

“I love you,” Blaine sighs against Kurt’s lips when they break the kiss. 

“You too,” Kurt answers, his eyes drifting shut, his hand relaxing but still gripped around Blaine’s wrist. “Tell me about your day.” 

“Um…I tried some new healthy cereal this morning. Which was actually good. I’ll have to remember what it is tomorrow and tell you. Brian Rhett had to leave PreCal today because his sister had her baby early at Lima Memorial, and when the secretary came in and told him, his face just completely lit up, it was so sweet. Ummm...‘Paradise’ practice has left me in a state of eternal pain.” Kurt giggles because that’s pretty much exactly how he feels right now, but he can’t bring himself to care, he’s so damn happy to be here with Blaine. “Oh—and Mike cornered me today. And asked me about our sex life.” 

Kurt’s giggles trail off. “What?”

“Mike—”

“No, I mean, I heard you—did he just say, ‘how’s your sex life,’ or was there some sort of…conversation?” 

“Nope, he pretty much just walked up to me and said ‘How’s your sex life’?” Blaine answers. “It was…really weird. But I think he meant well. I mean, it’s Mike. We’re friends.” 

Kurt makes a curious noise against Blaine’s shoulder. “I’m sure he does, honey. But that reminded me—Puck did the same thing to me on Monday. I completely forgot, it was in the middle of the day and I had that huge AP World test right after—”

“It’s fine, love,” Blaine says, pressing a kiss to the end of Kurt’s nose. “This week has been crazy. So—same thing? He just asked?” 

“Out of the blue, mmhm,” Kurt confirms. “I mean, Puck and I hardly talk outside of Glee. The most I get in the hallways is the occasional chin-nod or high five.” 

Blaine groans, pressing his face into the pillow again momentarily. “I think they’re still stuck on this sex thing. About us. Like, all the Glee guys. I walked in on them saying something about me on Monday before school and they all just froze, it was so awkward.”

“Why are they so fixated?” Kurt wonders, genuinely curious. “It has seriously not been my experience that Puck and Finn, et al want to know about gay sex.” 

Blaine shrugs. “It’s just not about gay sex to them. Which is actually really nice. It’s just that they all talk about their sex lives all the time, and I never do. I think they’re just trying to include me. Maybe.” 

Kurt makes a considering noise. 

“Why, haven’t the girls ever talked about their sex lives with you, and asked you about ours?”

“No,” Kurt answers automatically.

“Really?” Blaine says. “But practically all of them are sexually active—”

“…You’re right,” Kurt replies, shocked. “Oh my god, now that I’m thinking about it, they talk about sex all the time. Rachel just cornered me to ask for tips on giving Finn a blowjob today.” 

Blaine groans. “Too much information, dear.” 

“It was too much information for me too, sweetie,” he teases, nudging into Blaine’s neck with his nose. 

“So the girls talk about sex,” Blaine returns. 

“Yes, actually.”

“And do they ask you about us?”

Kurt opens his mouth, then pauses. “I was going to say ‘no,’” he answers finally. “But now that I’m thinking about it, they do always ask. Like, if they’re sharing stories, they’ll turn to me the same way they turn to everybody else. I always decline, of course. And they don’t usually push, except for stuff like Rachel today—I mean, if you think about it, me giving Rachel blowjob tips would literally be me telling Rachel how I blow you so she could blow my stepbrother better, which—just dear god no.” Blaine giggles into Kurt’s hair, similarly horrified. “I think they’re so used to me being the baby penguin that they don’t really think much about it,” Kurt adds. 

Blaine chuckles, leaning over down to lick a careful line up Kurt’s throat. “You are so not a baby penguin.”

“Yes, but _they_ don’t need to know that,” Kurt answers with a pleased little shiver. 

Blaine sighs. “That’s how I feel. But….”

“But if they’re going to be this pushy you’re thinking about giving up?” Kurt guesses. Blaine nods. “You could just tell them, you know. About us. Something, enough to get them off your back. As long as it’s not in excruciating detail and you run it by me beforehand, I don’t mind.” 

“Thanks,” Blaine answers quietly. “But—” he intentionally tries to move the arm that Kurt’s still gripping, and Kurt automatically bears down to keep him in place, right where he wants him, where he _put_ him. Blaine’s chest heaves with arousal and a strange, deep wave of calm, and he catches Kurt’s eyes, sees the same depth of understanding and love reflected back to him there. “But I want to keep this just for us. You can feel—? Does—does that make sense?” 

Kurt glances at where his hand is tight around Blaine’s wrist still, then back to Blaine’s eyes. “Of course, Blaine. Of course.” They kiss lightly, and settle back against one another. A little while later, Kurt reaches over and clicks off the light. They drift into sleep, and shift around one another, but Kurt’s hand encircles Blaine’s wrist all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	5. Minx

By Sunday, the news of Puck and Mike’s failure to fulfill Step One: Assess the Situation has spread, and Puck has called an emergency meeting. 

_as u all know anderbro and hummelina r giving us nothing. ihop 530._

_and yeah i mean a.m. finnocence_

Which is how the Sex Investigation Squad finds itself in the Midwest’s saddest, dingiest IHOP at 5:40 a.m. Monday morning, slumped to various degrees over various combinations of pancakes and meat. Sam’s hair is drooping precariously close to his half-empty cup of syrup, and Finn’s entire torso is laid face-down over a two-person table, but they’re all there and, nominally, awake. 

“I call this meeting of the Sex Investigation Squad to order, bitches!” declares Puck, the only person (including the cashier, who has returned to sort of using the register as a particularly boxy pillow) who is actually conscious. 

Artie lifts his head from where it had been rested on his forearms, the texture of his sweater now imprinted in his cheek and forehead. “Is this really that urgent, Puck?”

“Seriously,” Mike mumbles between bites of bacon. 

“Yes, bros of little faith.” Puck shakes the table that Finn is laying over until he sits up, blinking blearily. “This is urgent. I passed two ATMs on Sunday alone, and do you know what I wanted to do?”

Artie shakes his head, squinting at Puck as though he were a particularly strange animal in the zoo.

“I wanted to run the car into them. Just straight on through.” Puck pauses for dramatic effect, but the rest of the boys look more bewildered (or maybe sleepy) than anything. “I don’t even need money, bros,” Puck continues. “I’m fucking loaded. I worked pretty much 24/7 until the first frost, pool cleaning—which, by the way, is why I can be awake at 5:30 a.m. while the rest of you pussies can hardly keep your eyes open. By this time most weekdays in July, I’d already had my dick in Mrs. Williams for a good five to ten minutes.” 

“Stoooop,” groans Finn from where he’s returned to faceplant position on the table. 

Puck snorts as Sam and Artie begin to poke at their pancakes. “Since Finnocence here clearly can’t stomach the thought of vagina this early, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Grumbles of assent. “The point is our plan is not working. This investigation is stalled like Finn’s hand two inches from Berry’s tiny, tiny boobs.”

Finn makes a vague but alarmingly loud sound of protest, still facedown on the table, and they all look at him for a couple seconds to see if he’ll say anything or sit up, but he doesn’t. 

“Artie. Speak,” says Puck, dropping himself into a chair with gusto.

“Well,” Artie starts, straightening up a bit. “We’re still trying to…assess the situation. Step one.” 

“But talking didn’t work,” Sam points out.

“Exactly. Which is why we should try something else,” Puck says. 

“Like what?” Mike asks, looking apprehensive even with a mouth full of bacon. 

“Spying.”

*

The plan is simple: watch carefully, closely, and surreptitiously. (“Surreptitiously?” “Yeah. Don’t want to get caught, do you?” “What the fuck does surreptitiously mean?” “Like—furtively. Covertly. …Look, just don’t let them see that you’re watching them.”) They’re waiting, cleverly staggered along the stretches of lockers that Kurt and Blaine should walk past in the morning. Both boys, when they arrive, are examined for the tiniest hint of PDA (the most they get is the way Blaine courteously holds the door open for Kurt and the slightest brush of fingertips just before they part ways) or hickeys/bruises/bites (nothing—Kurt, as usual, is covered wrists to ankles plus a scarf that’s wrapped up to his jaw, and Blaine’s tucked neatly into his usual polo and bowtie with a sweater thrown over, so not even his arms are exposed). Sam and Puck tail them through the first two passing periods, but Kurt and Blaine apparently have classes completely across the building from one another. Mike manages to catch Blaine walking Kurt from second period to third, but even then they walk further apart than most friends, let alone couples. And when they separate into different classrooms, it’s with a little tilt of the head, a slight grin from Kurt and an answering small smile from Blaine, and again the lightest brush of fingertips.

By lunch, when the Squad (not very surreptitiously) regroups in the choir room to discuss their findings, they are a frustrated bunch. 

“They don’t fucking _touch_!” Puck begins when Mike finishes his report, throwing his arms into the air and nearly smacking Artie in the process.

“Nope,” says Mike. “You can hardly even tell they’re walking together.” 

“I don’t think Kurt likes PDA,” Finn offers, more coherent now that he’s been awake a while.

“At this rate, Blaine won’t lose his virginity until he and Kurt are 29 and married with two adorable adopted children,” Artie sighs. 

They all look over. 

“What?” Artie says defensively. “I have a vision. The Christmas chalet was just the beginning of their beautiful life together. But now I’m wondering if I should be moving the love scenes back in the narrative—but that would throw off the pacing completely—” 

Another moment of staring, then—

“This is ridiculous!” Puck yells, still pacing and running his hands through his ‘hawk. 

“Yeah, it totally sucks that they don’t feel safe. But, I mean, I get it; this school is so homophobic,” says Sam. 

Puck pauses mid-stride. “What did you just say.” 

“I said this school is so homophobic that—”

“Aha!” Puck points at Sam with both hands. 

“What?” Sam looks as bewildered as the rest. 

“New plan.”

*

After the last bell (and before the madness that is Glee just a few weeks before Nationals), Blaine finally makes it out of the science wing and over to Kurt’s locker.

“Hey, love,” he says softly as he comes around the corner, and he smiles when Kurt looks up from packing his bag with fond eyes. 

“Hey,” Kurt murmurs, reaching over to run his knuckles quickly over the back of Blaine’s hand. “Good day?”

Blaine settles his shoulder against the locker next to Kurt’s. “It was all right. Nothing special. Brian Rhett, whose sister had her baby last Friday? He showed around some pictures in PreCal today. Super cute baby. Tiny little wrinkled thing.” 

Kurt scrunches up his nose adorably. “Don’t get too many ideas,” he pretends to chide.

“No?” Blaine’s smile widens when Kurt pauses in the middle of shoving a notebook into his bag.

Kurt looks up once, just a touch longer than a glance, his eyes wondering and full but indecipherable. “Maybe,” he says before closing his locker with an air of finality. 

Blaine hums contentedly and glances down the hallway for letterman jackets (none) before helping Kurt up from the ground. 

“Anything else exciting? Any cheerleaders get in a catfight? Any puckheads actually complete their transformation into the Neanderthals they truly are?” Kurt’s on a roll now, leading the way down the hall toward the arts wing. 

“Nah,” Blaine answers. “The baby was pretty much the only break in the monotony. Mostly I couldn’t stop thinking about Friday night.” 

Kurt’s step stutters the slightest little hitch, barely noticeable except for how tuned Blaine is to Kurt’s body, to his breath, to the smooth way he moves. 

“And why are we talking about this here?” asks Kurt under his breath as they round a corner, shooting Blaine a glance. 

“Talking about what?” Blaine grins. 

Kurt rolls his eyes and tugs on Blaine’s bag in retribution as they enter the (blessedly empty and silent) choir room. “You know what,” he says, hopping up to claim their usual seats at the very back of the risers.

Blaine takes his seat next to his boyfriend, swinging his bag off his shoulder. “Oh, you’re right, I do,” he answers, his face the picture of bland seriousness. He leans in so his mouth hovers just above Kurt’s shoulder, an inch from his ear. And, oh so quietly, his breath ghosting over Kurt’s smooth throat: “I was talking about the way you kissed the breath out of me and fucked the sense out of me—twice—and then told me I wasn’t allowed to come. And it was so. Fucking. Good.” 

Kurt’s breath heaves out of him all in one go. Blaine leans away again, his eyes dark and mischievous and maybe a little blown with arousal, just as Finn, Rachel, Mercedes, and Sugar enter en masse. Luckily, Rachel is just obnoxious enough to occupy everyone for the few seconds it takes Kurt to lean over and whisper in Blaine’s ear, “You’re going to pay for that.” 

A shiver goes down Blaine’s spine, and warmth pools low in his stomach. “I hope so,” he answers just as Rachel skips up the risers, chattering away.

*

An hour or so after Glee ends, Finn is feeling a little ridiculous, sitting oh-so-quietly in his room. He’s tempted to just play some Call of Duty, but Puck would probably find out somehow and castrate him for ruining The Plan. Finn’s not even sure how he feels about this whole Sex Investigation thing—he’s kind of grossed out and doesn’t really want to know, honestly, but at the same time he is curious. A little. Maybe. Because Kurt and Blaine have been dating for like over a year now and there is just no way that they’re not doing anything. But there’s also no way that Kurt’s doing anything because…well, it’s Kurt.

Finn doesn’t get it. None of them do—which is how he finds himself here, hiding in his own bedroom just next to Kurt’s, waiting for Kurt (and maybe Blaine?) to get home. 

Upon realizing that Kurt and Blaine might be acting practically like strangers at school for safety reasons, Puck had insisted that they try to “catch the gays in their natural habitat,” where the only thing keeping them from being coupley would be the two of them, not the entire lettered population of William McKinley High. And who better to spy than Finn, who after all lives in the same house as Kurt. Sam, who stays with at the Hummels’ as often as not, is supposed to keep an eye out too, but he’d planned earlier in the year to stay at Artie’s this week and marathon the old seasons of Doctor Who, so he’s out for the time being. 

The weird thing, Finn thinks, still sitting still at his desk, out of sight from the doorway to his bedroom, is that he’s never seen Kurt and Blaine get really touchy, even at home—not the way that Finn himself and Rachel (or, earlier, Quinn) do. Finn doesn’t even know how many times Kurt has walked in on Finn and Rachel making out (or, once, the worst time, with Rachel’s hand down his pants—but he’s pretty sure Kurt didn’t notice because he never said anything even though they were on the family room couch and therefore “defiling our shared space,” as Kurt had shrieked last time he walked in on them). But he’s never seen Kurt and Blaine kiss, let alone…that. He’s seen them cuddle a little during family movie night, maybe. He sort of makes it a point to not look over at them when they’re on the couch together (anything can happen under a shared blanket, as Finn knows from experience,) so he’s not sure. 

Just as Finn’s starting to feel really weird about just sitting around, thinking about his stepbrother’s sex life, the door opens and shuts and the identifiable _click_ of Kurt’s boots comes up the stairs before getting muffled in Kurt’s room. Then comes the hardly audible but distinct sound of Kurt’s voice. Finn belly-crawls over to hang his head out of his open doorway, and sure enough, Kurt’s lilting voice carries through Kurt’s own open door and down the hall to Finn.

“—on over, yeah, nobody’s home but me.” A pause. “Yeah, I’m thinking you can stay for dinner. It’s Dad’s night, though, and I know how you feel about stroganoff—”

Finn rolls his eyes from his spot squashed against the floor. Kurt would call his boyfriend and then talk about cooking. 

“I can’t help it!” Kurt’s laughing now—he sounds so happy, and Finn wonders guiltily whether he’s ever heard that tone of voice from his stepbrother before. He doesn’t think so. Does their family not make Kurt happy—? “Well, regardless of the menu, you’re welcome to come. I don’t think Sam is here today, so there’ll be plenty.” Kurt’s voice is getting a little louder, and Finn ducks back into his room, hearing Kurt pad down the hallway, and then his voice again, “But anyway, as I was—”

But he’s down the stairs, his voice fading out before Finn can make anything else out. Finn wonders whether he should just give up the game now, emerge from some corner of the house as though he’s been there all along and try not to freak Kurt out too bad. But that seems too easy—and he has nothing to show for himself. (Damn Kurt for talking about dinner instead of having phone sex like a normal teenager.) Finn rolls over on the floor and stares at the blank ceiling, wondering when Kurt will come back up so he can listen again. 

A few minutes pass. He’s so bored. The ceiling is very white. And Finn is so sleepy from getting up at 5:15 to get to IHOP….

Maybe he’ll just rest his eyes while he waits….

…He drifts….

* 

Fifteen minutes later, Blaine raises his hand to knock at the Hummels’ door, but Kurt is already opening the door and pulling him inside before he can even get his gloves off.

“Hi,” Blaine says innocently, leaning in to kiss Kurt’s cheek. They’re still in the foyer—it’s hard to break muscle memory. 

Kurt accepts the kiss regally, then tows Blaine up the stairs. “Get up here, you little minx.” 

“Minx?” Blaine grins, enjoying the view of Kurt’s ass as he’s led up the stairs and into Kurt’s room. 

“Yes. Minx. What was that at school today, hm?” They’re in his room now, and Kurt reaches back to shut his door gently and then, slowly, saunter closer and closer to Blaine until Blaine is pressed to the door once again. 

“This feels familiar,” says Blaine with a wide smile, but his even wider pupils display just how happy about the situation he is. 

Kurt snorts, leaning in to kiss Blaine deeply (just lips for a moment, luscious and soft and just this side of wet, then _tongue_ and oh yes Blaine is glad he screwed homework for the moment and came over, and finally, Kurt’s tongue dipping shallower and shallower until it’s gone, Kurt’s teeth scraping over Blaine’s bottom lip and tugging, oh so gently but with a little delicious sting where his front teeth bite in, and Blaine gasps and tries to follow Kurt’s lips as he pulls away, but Kurt threads a firm hand through the hair at the back of Blaine’s head and holds him still). 

Blaine follows the Kurt’s guidance easily, leaning his head back against the door, exposing his throat. 

Blaine watches as Kurt’s eyes go dark. He leans in. “There’s my good boy,” he whispers in Blaine’s ear, and Blaine shudders from the backs of his arms down to his fingers and feels the way his ear and the side of his throat, everywhere Kurt’s breath is brushing, prickle in anticipation. 

“I like being your good boy,” he answers quietly, hardly more than a whisper, his eyes lowered. He feels so still and heavy and warm, it’s hard to be embarrassed, especially with the arousal pooling hot under where Kurt’s other hand is resting low on his stomach. 

“Is that right?” Kurt answers. He runs the tip of his nose from Blaine’s chin under along his jaw until he reaches his ear again. “And where was my good boy this afternoon?”

“Maybe I like being your minx, too,” Blaine answers, tilting his head even further back to encourage Kurt’s exploration. 

“Hmmm,” Kurt hums, his lips pressed just under Blaine’s ear. He takes the lobe between his teeth and nips lightly, chuckling breathily when Blaine whimpers. “Is that so?” 

“Yes,” Blaine says, and he’s not sure whether he’s answering the question or responding to the little bite.

Kurt doesn’t seem to mind—he laughs quietly again, his face still tucked against the sensitive skin beneath Blaine’s ear. He slides his lips down to the hinge of Blaine’s jaw and slides his hand up Blaine’s torso at the same time—Blaine can feel himself pushing into the heat of Kurt’s fingers on her sternum, but just as soon as it had come, it’s gone, and Kurt is taking both of Blaine’s wrists in hand, crossing them behind Blaine’s back, and pressing them to the door behind him. Kurt stays there for a moment, arms wrapped around Blaine’s waist, hands tight around his wrists, sucking lightly, teasingly, on the thin skin at the hinge of Blaine’s jaw, listening to Blaine’s deepening breath and his quickening heart and his eager little swallows. 

Kurt straightens up a little. “Stay,” he says, his eyes glittering, his voice still carrying that playful lilt. 

“Mmhm,” Blaine answers, squirming a little in anticipation. 

Kurt unties Blaine’s bowtie with careful, skilled fingers, slides it out of Blaine’s collar, and presses his fingertip into the hickey that’s revealed. Blaine’s breath hitches; he watches Kurt with dark eyes. 

“Go lay on the bed,” Kurt finally says.

Blaine scrambles to do as he’s told, clambering up onto Kurt’s lovely bed (possibly Blaine’s favorite place in the world, other than underneath Kurt himself). He lays down with his head on Kurt’s pillow, unsure of what Kurt has in mind, but Kurt quickly clarifies when he tugs Blaine down half a foot by the ankles. 

“Wrists up, honey,” Kurt says with a smile. 

Blaine crosses his wrists and swings his arms over his head, feeling calmer by the second even as his cock hardens. Kurt ducks beneath his bed for a moment and returns with a long summer scarf. “Okay?” he asks Blaine as he joins him on the bed. He kneels over him and trails the end of the scarf up Blaine’s exposed forearms. 

The scarf is soft and warm from Kurt’s hands. Blaine loves it, loves even the tease of it unwound, nuzzles against it and says “Yes, Kurt.” 

Kurt presses a quick kiss to Blaine’s lips, then his forehead. “Good,” he says, and sets to work tying Blaine’s wrists together and then to the headboard with a simple, loose knot. 

“Try not to tug, lovely,” Kurt says as he comes back down, to where Blaine is melted into the bed, Kurt’s lips a scant inch from Blaine’s. 

“Okay,” Blaine breathes, and he wants to say Kiss me but he begs with his lips instead, arching up towards Kurt but not quite closing the distance between them. 

“You want a kiss, little minx?” Kurt asks, his voice playful, maybe amused. 

“Yes, Kurt,” Blaine answers. They’re so close that their lips brush as Blaine speaks. 

“Mmmm,” Kurt answers noncommittally, hovering there for a moment, his sparkling eyes boring into Blaine’s. “And if I give you a kiss, what else will you want, I wonder?”

Blaine doesn’t have time to answer before Kurt is leaning down, pushing his lips against Blaine’s resting his forearms over Blaine’s above his head. It’s a light kiss, considering that Kurt is straddling Blaine, who is in turn tied to the headboard, all lips pressed and sliding, tugging a little, but always gentle, gentle, the lightest glide of Kurt’s tongue against the seam of Blaine’s lips enough to make Blaine gasp and open for him only to have Kurt lean back. 

“More,” Blaine whines a little, trying to follow Kurt but unable to move more than a little beneath Kurt’s weight. (And god is that good.) 

Kurt hums, and this time when he kisses Blaine, his mouth is wet and hot and dangerous, immediately coaxing Blaine’s mouth open and sucking at his tongue until Kurt has had his fill and Blaine is moaning into his mouth. Kurt licks up the underside of Blaine’s tongue one last time, grins wickedly as Blaine groans, and comes back in to nip Blaine’s lower lip. When Blaine keens and pushes his lip harder into Kurt’s teeth, Kurt bites a little harder, shifting a little, worrying the flesh between his teeth. Blaine’s breath is coming hard and fast, and when Kurt slides a hand down to cup under Blaine’s jaw where he’d been sucking earlier, he can feel Blaine’s heartbeat quickening. 

He draws back a little, but Blaine’s legs (which he must have wrapped around him at some point, Kurt’s lost track) tighten around him and Blaine makes an unintelligible sound of protest before saying “More, Kurt.” 

“More, hmm?” Kurt whispers. “All right.” 

He bites Blaine’s lip one last time, tugging it a little before releasing it, biting his way down Blaine’s jaw, and then— _fuck_ —down the side of his throat. They’re short bites, and just hard enough to feel it, not hard enough to mark (hopefully—Blaine’s skin usually holds up pretty well under duress, unlike Kurt’s own), but Blaine is squirming, almost thrashing under him. Kurt pulls back just enough to ask “Good?” but before he can even finish, Blaine is whimpering “Yes yes Kurt more please more more moremoremore” and he returns, biting into the meat above Blaine’s collarbone now, a little harder where a mark could be hidden easily under Blaine’s clothes. And—god—yes, making out with Blaine is always hot as fuck, but this is starting to really get to him too, the way he can feel Blaine moving against him, under him, struggling with himself, unsure of whether to move toward the pain or away. Kurt obeys his body’s demands—heat pulses down his cock, and he rolls it hard down into Blaine’s just once and sighs shakily against Blaine’s neck at the pleasure that floods him in waves—“Fuck, ohfuck, more, Kurt” Blaine gasps. Kurt (barely) resists the urge to just grind against Blaine’s cock until they both come in their pants, instead raising himself back onto his knees a bit and pushing the hand that had been cupping Blaine’s jaw up into Blaine’s hair, threading his fingers in deep, pulling until Blaine’s throat is a beautiful, vulnerable arch. 

Kurt bites into the strong muscle of Blaine’s shoulder one last time, sucking hard at the flesh in his mouth before releasing it—Blaine yelps a little beneath him but he’s gasping too, his hips rocking, seeking the friction that Kurt had given them for a moment. Then he moves up, under Blaine’s jaw again but on the other side of his neck, nuzzling a little there, kissing gently, and then, without warning, a sharp bite under his jaw, a nip to the tendon that stands out as Blaine strains under Kurt, by now whimpering constantly, finally managing to get out “ _morepleaseKurt._ ” 

Kurt hums, nipping once more at the tendon before licking down the center of Blaine’s throat to the dip between his collarbones, where the hickey, still dark from their lovemaking Friday, rests. 

He licks over it soothingly, and Blaine exhales heavily above him. “God, Kurt,” he says shakily when Kurt hovers there, breathing over the wet skin, making Blaine shiver. Kurt stays there for a moment, just waiting, until Blaine breathes “ _More,_ ” and Kurt nuzzles into the little notch with his nose before getting the skin there between his teeth. 

Blaine gasps and arches his entire body hard—so hard the headboard bangs against the wall—and he pushes up into Kurt’s teeth and hands, making the skin between Kurt’s teeth tighten so much under the stretch that it nearly slips out from between them. Instead, Kurt ends the bite, pushing back in to suck at the hickey, worry at it and scrape it with his teeth as Blaine writhes and keens and whines unintelligible things beneath him.

*

Next door, a muffled banging sound startles Finn out of his unintentional nap.

*

“Oh, god, Kurt,” Blaine finally manages when Kurt’s laid off a little, laving over the skin just with his tongue. “Oh—ohgod, more, please, please let me come.”

Kurt pauses, allowing himself one little moment of absurd pride that he’s gotten his boyfriend this worked up while hardly even touching him beneath the shoulders. So far. Then he sits up entirely, perching there with his ass and all his weight right over where Blaine’s cock is hard and hot and aching in his jeans.

*

Finn blinks himself out of a dream, disoriented at first—why is he laying on the ground?—before he remembers, right, The Plan and Kurt and Blaine who never touch, ever, and—wait—what was that sound that woke him up?

*

“Let you come, hmm, little minx?” Kurt says, shifting his hips in slow circles, grinding his ass into Blaine’s cock little by little.

“Yes, please, Kurt,” Blaine says—good boy not pulling at the scarf binding him, his eyes impossibly dark and wide as he stares up at Kurt, utterly open and debauched. 

“Hmmm,” Kurt hums again, trailing his fingertips oh so lightly from Blaine’s upturned wrists down his arms, up his neck, caressing over his face until he’s leaning down over Blaine, their faces a few inches apart. He’s still circling his hips ever so slowly on Blaine’s cock, a cruel tease.

*

Finn sits up, slowly, careful of the creaky bits of floor that he knows are around here somewhere. He cautiously belly crawls back over to his open doorway.

*

“You only wanted a kiss earlier,” Kurt finally says.

“Yes—but—” Blaine is panting and flushed, his hips twitching beneath Kurt with the desire to grind up into him. 

“But what?” Kurt’s eyes are dark. “I don’t think you’ve been a very good boy for me today.” 

Blaine whimpers, trying and failing to still his hips.

*

Finn peeks his head out the door, but he can’t really hear anything. Well, he can hear—something—but is that Kurt and Blaine talking, or a movie playing—?

*

“I think you’ve been a little minx, baby,” Kurt is saying, mock-apologetic, flushing from the neck up but holding Blaine’s gaze. “Teasing me at school, and being so greedy when all I said I’d give you was a kiss.”

Blaine’s blushing as red as Kurt’s ever seen him, but his eyes are still and wide watching Kurt. 

“And you know only good boys get to come,” Kurt says, almost breathless. 

“OhmygodKurt,” Blaine gasps, his eyes widening. 

Kurt kisses Blaine one more time, lightly, almost chastely except Blaine’s hands are bound above them and Kurt is still grinding down on his cock. 

Then Kurt slides off Blaine entirely.

*

Finn feels ridiculous belly crawling down the hallway, and he can’t hear anything coming from Kurt’s room anyway, so he gets carefully to his knees and then his feet, still inching down the hallway. He bets it’ll be easier to hear if his ear is pressed against the door.

*

Kurt runs a hand over the curve of Blaine’s cheek. “You okay, Blaine?”

“Mmhm,” Blaine answers, nuzzling against Kurt’s hand, his hips still rocking just a little into the empty air. “Really turned on.” 

Kurt chuckles. “I know, sweetheart.” 

“Orgasm denial. Worst idea ever.” Blaine’s smiling, though, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to Kurt’s palm. 

“You can always safeword. Or just say you don’t like it,” Kurt suggests, still a little nervous—they’ve certainly never done this before. Barring the very, very few times that his dad or Carole has come home earlier than expected, they’ve never stopped sex before orgasms. …Usually two orgasms, in Blaine’s case. 

“No,” says Blaine, his blush back in full force now. “I like it.” 

Kurt exhales, smiles. “Good.” He pets through Blaine’s hair for a moment, then asks “Do you want to stay tied up for a little longer, or should I untie you now?” 

Blaine wriggles a little, feeling the scarf’s softness. God, he wants to stay right here, warm, safe, aroused, smelling Kurt everywhere around him. But…. “Honestly? I want to stay tied up. But it’s going to take me a long while to stop being so hard it’s actually indecent without being bound to your headboard. So. If you still want me to eat dinner with your family….” 

“I should untie you,” Kurt sighs regretfully, looking over the delectable spread of Blaine flushed and messy on his bed. 

“Probably,” Blaine agrees.

*

Finn makes it the last step to Kurt’s door without doing something dumb like tripping over his own clumsy, half-asleep legs. He leans in….

*

“I’m glad you didn’t pull it,” Kurt praises, eyeing Blaine’s crossed wrists fondly. “It’s easy to get undone this way.”

In a matter of seconds, Kurt’s unwound the scarf from Blaine’s wrists, and so it sits an innocent length of fabric at the head of the bed. Blaine sits up and opens his mouth as—

*

Finn leans in to press his ear to the door, maybe hear actual words instead of the indefinite murmuring he’s got so far, but as he shifts his weight the floor lets out a _creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak_ , and he freezes, eyes wide in horror, half an inch from his brother’s door.

*

Kurt’s eyes go huge and then very, very narrow. His hands fly to Blaine’s shirt, which he buttons all the way up to cover the newly irritated hickey, and then to his own, which got half undone at some point.

“ _What was that?!_ ” Blaine whispers, hurriedly arranging the bedspread around himself to look less…well, less like he’d thrashed and sweated and begged on it for half an hour. 

“I don’t know,” Kurt breathes back, handing Blaine a copy of _Vogue_ from his desk. “Open. Read.” Kurt takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his mussed hair, then strides across the room in two huge steps. Blaine yanks a pillow over his lap just as Kurt opens the door—

*

—Where Finn is still hovering, slightly crouched and bleary-eyed. He shrinks back when the door flies open. 

“Finn,” Kurt says flatly, trying to sound more ‘vaguely annoyed’ and less ‘actively furious because you just interrupted the awesome kinky sex I was having.’ He’s not sure he succeeds. 

“Huh?” Finn answers.

“Why are you standing outside my door, Finn?” 

“Oh. Um.” 

This the awkwardest awkward silence ever. Kurt can’t tell if Finn heard something and is just too shocked to manage words, and Finn can’t tell if Kurt knows he was spying. 

“I didn’t even know you were home,” Kurt finally says, trying to sound casual. 

“Oh. I was, um, napping,” Finn nods.

Considering how out of it Finn is every single morning, Kurt is now prepared to take ‘half-asleep’ as a plausible explanation for any strange behavior that Finn might have engaged in. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, and, um, I was wondering when dinner is?” 

“Whenever Dad gets home; it’s his night,” Kurt answers. 

“Oh, right. And, um, is Blaine here?” Fuck, Finn thinks. He just ruined any chance of Kurt not catching on. Kurt is going to figure it out and hate him forever and probably tell Burt that Finn is a horrible person and then he’ll be kicked out of his own family and—

“Yeah. We’re going through some old Vogues and my old scarf collection,” Kurt answers blandly. A choking sound comes from further in the room, and Finn leans in cautiously. 

Blaine is sitting crosslegged on the bed, with a pillow topped by an open magazine in his lap. “Hey, man,” Finn says. 

“Hey,” Blaine says back, his voice curiously high. 

Kurt steps forward and crowds Finn back out of his room. “You’re not stealing him off for bro activities now, beanstalk. Get out of here. If you snack, don’t snack on my sweet peas.” He closes the door, still all of an inch from Finn’s face. He spins around and shares a wide-eyed incredulous stare with Blaine. 

“Like I was gonna eat sweet peas!” Finn calls through the door. 

“Finn!” Kurt’s warning voice is almost as scary as Quinn’s warning voice, so Finn scampers down the stairs. He’s pretty sure there’s still a whole sleeve of Oreos left over from sundae-making a couple weeks ago.

*

“Oh my god” is all Blaine can say once Finn is safely out of earshot.

“Oh my god,” Kurt echoes. 

“Did we actually get away with that?” Blaine says. 

“I think we did,” Kurt answers, clamoring up to sit facing him on the bed and taking his hands for a moment before flipping them and starting to massage where Blaine’s wrists had been tied. The scarf wasn’t very tight or on for too long, but he can never be too careful. 

“I can’t believe he was sleeping the next room over that whole time,” Blaine says, his eyes wide. 

“Oh my god, do you think we woke him up? Did he hear us?” Kurt shoots the door a worried glance. 

“Nah,” Blaine demurs, shifting in a bit and kissing Kurt’s nose. “He would have said something.” 

Kurt looks skeptical.

“Love, it’s Finn. He doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body.” 

Kurt sighs, deflating and sliding his hands down to squeezing Blaine’s. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” 

They both sit there for a moment, and then Kurt says “I don’t think we can have sex at my house anymore.” 

“Either that or we do a thorough search of the premises beforehand,” Blaine says. 

Kurt shudders. “Who knows, Sam could be here right now.” 

“…Yeah, maybe we should just do stuff at my place for a little while,” Blaine sighs. 

“And we hardly get time together as it is,” mutters Kurt, faceplanting into the pillow on Blaine’s lap. 

“There is one upside.”

“And what’s that?” comes Kurt’s muffled voice. 

“I’m not hard anymore,” Blaine says smugly. 

Kurt grins wickedly. “Oh, I can fix that, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	6. Knock, knock, knock

As far as Finn is concerned, Puck’s ‘new plan’ to spy on Kurt and Blaine at the Hummel-Hudsons’ has failed and should be discontinued immediately. Seriously, a whole day of listening to Kurt and Blaine (and, okay, napping through most of it) and all he got was a conversation about dinner and the two of them going through scarves together. It’s so un-sexual that it’s almost funny. And a little disturbing. (Like, that’s less sexual than when Finn and Puck chill together, and Finn and Puck aren’t boyfriends. The fuck? Admittedly Puck is a sex shark and will end up talking about and/or reenacting his sexploits no matter where Finn starts the conversation.) 

So yeah. Hopeless. 

The rest of the Squad, however, insists that this is their absolute best chance, and that they should continue as planned. 

“One seemingly platonic afternoon doesn’t mean they never have sex, bro,” Artie advises. 

“Yeah, it’s not like you and Rachel fuck every time you see each other,” Puck adds. “Speaking of, how’s that going for you? Last I heard Berry wasn’t putting out until after her NYADA audition.” 

_To cultivate the discipline I absolutely need to embody and convey to Carmen Tibideaux during my audition, Finn!_ Rachel’s voice echoes. Finn huffs. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.” 

“All right then, that’s settled.” Artie claps his hands together once. “We’ll continue with the plan. Sam can start helping you next week, Finn. It won’t be so bad.”

* * *

It’s bad. 

The Squad has developed a system. It’s a little fucked up when Finn thinks about it, so he tends not to think about it. He just bounds down the hallway a few hours after dinner (well, on the days that Blaine is over for dinner, which is more often than not) until he gets to Kurt’s door. 

Pause. Listen. 

Nothing. Not a sound. 

_Knock knock knock_

“Hey, Kurt?”

Kurt’s door opens about a second a half later. His expression is particularly exasperated today, and Finn wonders for a panicked half-second if he’s catching on. 

“Yes?”

“Oh.” He forgot to think of something to say, shit shit shit. 

“Finn.” 

“Is Rachel on her period this week?” 

“ _What?_ ” _Shit_. Bad choice. 

Well, he might as well go with it. 

“Is Ra—”

“I _heard_ you, Finn, why are you asking me?” Finn takes the opportunity presented by Kurt’s annoyance to glance his stepbrother over. He’s as (strangely) put together as usual, not a button out of place. Damn it. Failed again. Nobody can make out in a vest and button down and not have a single wrinkle to show for it. Finn would know. 

“Well I mean she’s been so cranky and scary and—”

“So you ask _her_ , if you really want to know.”

“Well, but I mean—”

“And there are reasons other than the menstrual cycle for Rachel to be a little stressed out.”

“I guess I just—”

“Nationals and NYADA auditions are on the horizon, do you realize that? Do you realize how stressful that is for her? That’s going to affect the rest of her life.”

“I—”

“And seriously, Finn, why would I know when Rachel is or isn’t on her period?”

Finn isn’t sure whether Kurt is saying _shouldn’t you know that, given that you’re the one who’s having sex with the girl_ or _I’m not actually a girl, Finn, you giant idiot._ Either way he feels…bad. 

“Right. Well. I’ll just.” Finn slinks off, feeling pretty terrible and with no more evidence for or against Kurt and Blaine’s hypothetical sex life. 

Then again, he sort of gets why Rachel has been so weird the past few days. Maybe he’ll bring her tea and honey tomorrow, that usually gets him major points.

* * * 

Pause. Listen. Nothing. _Knock knock knock._

Kurt’s door flies open and there stands Kurt, his eyebrow climbing rapidly from “unimpressed” to “disdainful” territory. 

“What, Finn?”

“Oh, um, do you understand the subjunctive? Because we just started it in Spanish and I am so lost and I don’t want to let Mr. Schue down—”

Kurt has tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. “I’m in French, Finn.”

“Oh, right!” Finn fakes a smile as his stomach drops. _Stupid_. “…Well, does Blaine know the subjunctive?” He edges his way into the room and sees Blaine seated on the floor with his back to Kurt’s bed, a textbook open in his lap and a highlighter in hand. _Seriously, homework?_

“Huh?” Blaine shakes himself out of his book and looks up (way, way up) at Finn. “…Subjunctive? Oh, yeah, sure, I learned that last year at—”

Kurt lets out a slight growl and Blaine falls silent, and Finn turns to his stepbrother, startled. “Finn. Blaine will not be helping you tonight. You can ask him during study hall tomorrow, like a normal person. Now go away.”

Finn deflates. “Well, okay.” He slinks out of the room. “Geez.”

* * * 

Pause. Listen. 

_Knock knock knock_

“Hey, Kurt?” 

Kurt’s door opens so fast that Sam takes a step back, startled. 

“Whoa, man.” 

Kurt deflates a little, leaning his hip against the doorway. Sam assesses the situation: Kurt’s clothes are perfect and there isn’t any smooth jazz playing the background. Damn it. (They’ve all agreed that, if Kurt and Blaine aren’t eunuchs or saving themselves for marriage, they’d probably have sex with smooth jazz playing in the background. And probably with flowers all over the place or something.) 

“Sorry,” Kurt is saying a little begrudgingly. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Just—where’s the laundry detergent?”

Kurt gives him a weird look. “Above the washer. With the dryer sheets and all the other laundry stuff.” 

“Great! Thanks, man!” Sam turns and bounces back down the stairs. He throws himself back into bed and texts Finn, _No luck. Still._

* * *

Two weeks into the home spying, Finn and Sam are taking a Super Smash Bros break when they realize that it’s time to check on Kurt and Blaine. After a brief but intense thumb war battle, Sam jogs up the basement stairs. Finn can hear Kurt’s door open, but he’s down two flights of stairs, too far away to hear the annoyed tone of Kurt’s voice, thank God. A minute later, Sam comes back down the stairs. Finn raises his eyebrows. 

“Nothing,” Sam answers. 

Finn pulls a face—expected, but still—and sits up to pick up his controller.

“Do you ever think—like—I would go crazy if I spent that much time alone with my significant other and didn’t have sex at all.” 

Finn winces. Despite the goal of the Squad, he still doesn’t really want to…think about it. He thinks about sex with Rachel instead. And then about going for like a year without sex with Rachel, now that they’ve started. (He is going slightly crazy now and it’s only been a couple weeks. And he still gets handjobs sometimes, so.) It’s about the most unpleasant thing he can imagine, because now he knows better, he knows exactly what Rachel’s legs look like beneath those evil scratchy skirts, and he knows what kind of panties she wears, and the sounds she makes, which aren’t all that different from the weird breathing exercises she sometimes does before glee and— “Yeah, man. Crazy.”

*

“Oh my god,” Kurt says upon closing the door in Sam’s face. He leans back against the door and puts his face in his hands and sucks in a huge breath. 

“What is it? Kurt?” 

Kurt can hear Blaine shifting from where he’d been laying belly-down on his bed. He uncovers his eyes to watch Blaine stretch out a little (god, fuck, his ass in those jeans) before swiveling around to sit cross-legged, looking up at him sweetly. (…And oh shit even that is doing it for him, because how many times has he seen that exact soft attentive innocent expression peeking up at him from between his legs while Blaine worked his mouth up and down on his cock….)

Kurt lets the breath out. “I think I’m going slowly insane,” he says. 

“Kurt?” Blaine is raising up on his knees to get off the bed, and Kurt doesn’t want to actually worry him, so he crosses the room in two big steps, waving Blaine off and kissing him on the cheek as he passes (despite the fact that it makes his lips buzz and his own cheek burn oh so sweetly where it had brushed Blaine’s slight stubble). 

He’s about to pick up his history textbook again, but Blaine is still watching him carefully. “Kurt? What’s going on?”

All the fight goes out of Kurt, and he dismisses the idea of studying with a scoff and flops facedown on the bed next to Blaine. 

“I’m going crazy,” he repeats into the bedspread, but it comes out more like em gagray. 

“What?” says Blaine. 

Emboldened, he says into the bedspread, “I can’t be with you this much and not have sex with you. I miss it. I miss you like that. It’s all I can think about and I think I’m going crazy.” 

There’s a heavy pause. Kurt looks up. Blaine’s face is all of half an inch from his own, and he’s blushing prettily. 

“Um. I heard that time,” Blaine says sheepishly. 

Kurt’s entire face and neck and chest blush, he can feel it. “Well,” he finally produces, rallying. “That happened.” His voice quiets to almost a whisper, but he pushes on, because he and Blaine try so hard to be honest with one another, and it’s what Kurt loves most about them, even when it’s hard. It’s how they got into this (beautiful, delicious, erotic) mess in the first place. “…I never thought it would be like this, you know. Sex. And the rest. I didn’t think I’d want it so much.” 

Blaine presses forward, ducking his head so he can get at Kurt’s lips despite Kurt’s lowered head. The kiss deepens quickly, and neither of them seem quite able to pull away. It’s been a while since they just let themselves be. By the time they do separate reluctantly, just half an inch of breathing (gasping) room between their lips, their foreheads pressed together, Kurt is leaning back on his elbows, and Blaine is cradling his face, rubbing his thumbs over Kurt’s cheekbones reverently. Blaine sighs into Kurt’s mouth. “I miss it too,” he says. 

Kurt’s eyes flicker up to meet his, so close they swallow him. “Yeah?”

“Mmm,” Blaine confirms, pressing a warm, close-mouthed kiss to Kurt’s lips. “Yes. God, Kurt, you have no idea—I miss you. I need you. I need it.” All at once, Blaine’s breath shudders out of him and into Kurt’s mouth. “I think about it all the time, fuck, your pants today, I could practically see your cock—and your boots, I just…. And when you hold my hand lately all I think about it you holding my wrists, and when you were sitting in glee and you uncrossed your legs all I wanted to do was kneel between them, I just, Kurt, I….” 

Kurt shushes him and kisses him again, learning forward and then gently lowering Blaine onto his back. He tries to keep the kiss gentle and draws back as soon as Blaine is settled. “Love. We don’t really have privacy right now. And we’re not going to have it any time soon.” Blaine’s eyes suddenly look a little wet, but he nods obediently and makes to sit up. Kurt keeps him there with a hand to the center of his chest. They sit there for a moment, breathing, wanting, staring at one another. “I want to get a little creative,” Kurt finally says. 

“Okay,” Blaine ekes out. 

“It’s not going to last long, because god knows they won’t leave us alone for five minutes. We’re going to stop when I say. And you have to be very, very quiet.” 

“Okay,” Blaine breathes. 

“Okay,” Kurt answers, and then he takes Blaine’s wrists in his hands and raises them above Blaine’s head. He smiles a little when all the tension starts to drain out of Blaine’s body—it’s such a privilege to be this for Blaine, to give this to him, to get to watch it happen. He’s so beautiful it hurts sometimes. It hurts especially when Kurt can’t touch.

…Kurt can touch now. Carefully. Quietly. Briefly. 

Kurt gives Blaine’s wrists one last squeeze before sliding down Blaine’s body, untucking his shirt and undoing his belt. “Kurt?” Blaine whispers from the top of the bed. 

“Mmm?” Kurt answers, popping the button of Blaine’s pants. 

“I thought—”

“Shhh,” Kurt soothes. Blaine whimpers ever so slightly. “Do you need something in your mouth, sweetheart? Would that help?” 

Blaine’s eyes go wide. “Yes, Kurt.” 

“Ask nicely,” Kurt murmurs, eyes dark. 

“Would you please fill my mouth, Kurt?” Blaine breathes. 

Kurt shudders a little. “Mmm. Yes.” God. He wants to fill it with his cock. He’s pretty sure Blaine wants that, too. But they can’t, not with four other people home, especially since Finn and Sam have been so weirdly needy lately. There’s no such thing as privacy here. He and Blaine had learned that the hard way. 

Which is why he can’t sit here and waste time mourning their lack of privacy. He needs this to be quick. And quiet. He slides a hand up Blaine’s chest, over his throat where the hickey they usually keep dark and throbbing has faded to a slight purple discoloration, and finally to his lips. Blaine purses his lips against Kurt’s palm in a sweet kiss, and then Kurt slides two of his fingers into Blaine’s mouth. 

(Holy jesus fucking god why did he think this was a good idea, Blaine’s fucking mouth, it’s so wet and warm and his _tongue_ and)

Kurt tries to ignore the way Blaine is literally fellating his fingers and returns to the task at hand. He tugs down Blaine’s underwear and then pants to his shins with his free hand and urges Blaine’s legs back. He can see Blaine’s cock filling, and it’s fucking torture, he wants to suck it, oh, he wants to ride Blaine into the mattress—

But no. No. None of that now. Instead he nuzzles against the base of Blaine’s cock, by now entirely hard and straining up toward Blaine’s navel. Then he drags his mouth just a bit to the side, to the warm sweet musky place where Blaine’s inner thigh meets his groin. 

Blaine whimpers above him, and Kurt’s sure he’s found a good spot. 

“What did I say about being quiet?” he says softly.

Blaine nods and takes his fingers deeper in response. 

Kurt starts with just his breath at the junction of leg and groin until Blaine starts to fidget a little. Then he laps at the skin, languidly drawing the flat of his tongue along the whole line where they meet, so close to the base of Blaine’s cock and his ass and his perineum but not quite any of them, a horrid tease, Kurt’s sure. Or a very good tease, if the cut off noises Blaine is making above him and the way his mouth is going lax around Kurt’s pressing fingers are any indication. 

Kurt gives the line a final lingering lick and then draws back. Blaine’s eyes are on him instantly. 

“I need you to be very quiet,” Kurt warns him in an undertone. 

Blaine nods again, sliding his mouth down on Kurt’s fingers in the process, tonguing at the sensitive flesh where his pointer and middle finger meet. 

Fuck. Kurt ruts down into the mattress a little. He hadn’t even really noticed getting hard, but he is; he really, really is. It’s times like these that he wonders whether he could come from his hands being stimulated alone…. 

No time for that now. 

Kurt hitches Blaine’s leg a little higher with his free hand and brings his lips down to the flesh he’d already wetted and sucks. He pulls at the skin with his lips until it’s pink and irritated and Blaine is squirming beneath him. And then he kisses hot and open-mouthed and obscene. 

And then he latches on with his teeth. 

Blaine keens voicelessly; Kurt can hear the air hissing out and can feel it on his fingers. 

The biting doesn’t last long, just until Blaine’s back starts arching uncontrollably and Kurt is satisfied (aesthetically and also viscerally, in his cock, which throbs when he looks at what he’s done) with how red the skin looks. It’ll probably be purple in a couple of hours. 

He gives a satisfied little hum, presses one last kiss to it, and sits back on his haunches. Blaine’s eyes are slightly frantic when Kurt draws his fingers out of Blaine’s mouth. “Kurt—”

But Kurt is already pulling Blaine’s clothes back into place. Blaine’s hard cock fills the pants out deliciously, and Kurt can’t really stop looking, wanting to suck at it through the fabric until it’s so wet with saliva and precome that the pants won’t hide anything at all. But… “We have to stop now, honey. I warned you.” 

Blaine gazes up at him, his face so open and so openly turned on that Kurt very narrowly keeps himself from lowering himself onto Blaine and just rutting against him until they both come. 

But that would be too loud for sure. And it would drastically increase the chances that someone would knock on Kurt’s door while they were either in the midst of things or afterwards, when they’d be sweaty and mussed with underwear full of come, and Blaine might still be a little floaty and quiet, even more than he is now…. 

“Okay,” Blaine finally says, still flushed. 

Kurt presses a chaste kiss to Blaine’s lips and sits them both up. 

“You did well, sweetheart,” he says in Blaine’s ear, and Blaine nuzzles up against him. 

“Why’d you do that?” he asks from where he’s pressed against Kurt’s steadily thumping heart. 

Kurt tilts his head. “Hm. I thought it might help. A little. You can press on it or pinch it, and you’ll be able to really feel it. So when you get yourself off, I’ll be with you, a little bit. What I left on you. What I did to you.” 

Blaine is silent, tucked against Kurt’s chest. 

“Is that okay?”

“I’m going to go crazy,” Blaine says, muffled, and Kurt has to laugh at the reversal.

“Me too, sweetheart.” 

“Kurt, you put it on my _inner thigh_ —”

“You’re sensitive there! You practically die every time I rim you. And it’s easy to hide! And it’s…where your hands will be anyway. It’s a perfectly good spot.” 

“—I’m going to feel it walking around all day!” 

Kurt flushes. “I may have considered that.”

“You’re evil,” Blaine moans. 

Kurt sighs. “Well. Maybe a little. I can’t be blamed. I’m going crazy.”

Blaine pushes up against him so he’s straddling Kurt’s thigh, his hard nipples dragging against Kurt’s chest through their shirts. “God, I’m going crazy too—Kurt, you already took my pants off and it was fine, please can’t we just—”

Kurt pushes Blaine off, gently but firmly, because if he doesn’t stop now he won’t be able to at all. Overwhelming lust has removed Kurt’s middle ground for the moment. 

“No. Too risky.” He stands—he’s still hard and he’s sure Blaine notices but they’re just going to ignore it because they cannot right now, Kurt will not let them—and sits down at his desk again. His history textbook is still open to the Korean War. He stares at it blankly. 

Blaine huffs out a little sigh. “Okay,” he says quietly. Kurt knows he understands. It just sucks. A lot. For both of them. And not in the good sucking way. No, Kurt. Bad Kurt. 

It’s good that they were careful, though, because sure enough, four minutes later, there comes a _knock knock knock_ and they exchange a pained look before Kurt lifts himself out of his chair and crosses the room and swings open the door on their sanctuary once more.

* * * 

But they can’t be careful forever. 

It might be the way Blaine has been flushing prettily every time he crosses his legs (“It makes it _ache_ , Kurt,” he moans when Kurt asks, but Kurt knows he means the good kind of ache and just grins slowly). Or maybe it’s the sheer lack of safe time for touch let alone sex in light of the busy glee schedule and Finn and Sam’s constant interruptions ( _I feel starved for you sometimes_ , Kurt texts Blaine one night, to which Blaine responds ten minutes later with _me too_ accompanied by a picture of his come-covered hand nudging his balls aside to reveal the hickey Kurt had left a week ago, larger and darker than it had been originally). Or maybe it’s just the knee-high lace-up boots Kurt put on this particular Thursday, or the thin v-neck Blaine decided to torture his boyfriend with (and which bared, for the first time in probably months, Blaine’s more or less unmarked suprasternal notch—it’s a tease, a total tease, because Blaine knows exactly how sensitive he is there and exactly how much Kurt will want to mark him up as soon as he sees it). 

To their credit, they make it through the entire school day with only light touches—the warmth of Blaine’s lingering palm bleeding through the buttery leather covering Kurt’s calf while Blaine kneels down to get his books from his locker, the lightest teasing brush of Kurt’s fingers one-by-one across Blaine’s exposed suprasternal notch (which sends Blaine shivering), the usual (but today unusually sensual) sweep of fingers across one another’s palms or wrists to say hello or see you later. Admittedly, at the last bell, Blaine does press much closer to Kurt than he normally would at Kurt’s locker, nuzzling his cheek into Kurt’s shoulder as he begs Kurt in a heated whisper to skip Glee and let Blaine blow him (“in your car, or at home—no one will be home—Kurt, please?”) instead. Kurt is very tempted, but in the end it doesn’t work, not least because an apparently oblivious Mike Chang bounds over right in the middle of Blaine panting against Kurt’s neck and claps them both on the shoulder and asks if they need to review their dance in _Paradise by the Dashboard Light._ It doesn’t quite kill the mood—they’re too desperate for that—but it does scare them out of their aching, wanting skin for a precious clearheaded moment.

They make it through Glee, which runs long but is a good distraction (if only Kurt could stop staring at Blaine’s ass in his sweatpants). Because Glee runs long, though, they have no time to be alone between practice ending and a preplanned dinner at the Andersons’. (“I still don’t get why they invite me over,” Kurt grumbled a month ago. “I mean, I’m all for spending more time with you, but your dad hardly looks at me.” Blaine had smiled a little sadly. “I think they realized that if they didn’t invite you too, I’d keep spending every evening at your house, rather than just the vast majority of them.” Kurt sighed, then admitted “Well, at least they’re making an effort.”) 

The car ride is fraught. Kurt puts on a playlist of some of their favorite songs to sing along with, but it’s not nearly enough of a distraction and they both know it. The energy is buzzing between them. Whenever Blaine shifts in the passenger seat, Kurt feels the little hairs on his right arm stand up. Blaine swears he can smell Kurt the entire time. They both tell themselves they’re being ridiculous and then (upon admitting what’s happening aloud) tell each other they’re being ridiculous. They try to laugh it off, but the tension doesn’t go away. Kurt notices towards the end of the drive that Blaine has started literally sitting on his hands to keep from touching Kurt, which Kurt finds charming and flattering and somehow also…oddly erotic. 

Well, they did figure out pretty early on that they like Blaine desperate. 

If the car ride is unpleasant, dinner is torture. They’re seated across from one another, as usual. They exhibit perfect manners and perfectly appropriate topics of conversation, as usual. What is not usual is that, underneath their flawless performance, they’re both dying a little. Their eyes lock accidentally every minute or two, ratcheting up the energy between them again and again. By the time they hit dessert, Kurt keeps catching himself watching Blaine’s mouth. Blaine sits forward a bit and captures one of Kurt’s feet between his. It’s a shock of warm, innocent contact that, even after everything they’ve done together, makes Kurt blush. 

By the time dinner is over, they’re both more than a little aroused and more than a little desperate to be alone. But Blaine’s mother asks them to help with the dishes (read: do the dishes) because Blaine’s father has to run off to take a late call with China, and she herself has to pack for an early business flight the next morning. They agree. (“Not a problem!” Kurt smiles as his stomach sinks miserably.) Blaine’s mother leaves them to it. Kurt has to unbutton and roll up the sleeves of his fitted button-down to keep it from getting wet, and this alone (the quick, easy competence of Kurt’s fingers, the slow reveal of his pale sensitive wrists, of his strong forearms, the wiring of delicate blue veins on the underside) has Blaine half-hard in his jeans. Kurt takes one look at Blaine’s wide eyes and parted lips and orders, “Blaine. Wait.” (He’s surprised he manages even that. He himself only narrowly managed to convince himself not to push Blaine up onto one of the Andersons’ pristine granite counters and suck him off, fast and dirty.) 

The dishes are an exercise in self-restraint. They work to shoulder-to-shoulder. By mutual, tacit agreement, they don’t try to hold an actual conversation. Mostly they focus on the way their arms flex and shift where they’re pressed together. Under the influence of the hot, misty air, Blaine’s hair slowly unmolds from its gel, and Kurt turns pink. 

It’s twenty minutes of near-silence. When Blaine carefully dries the last pan, and Kurt carefully switches off the faucet, they turn to one another, stunned and flushed from the hot water and one another. 

Kurt’s hand rises of its own accord to hold Blaine’s neck, his thumb along Blaine’s throat and the rest of his fingers curling around to the back of his head. Blaine feels each pinpoint of pressure acutely, and feels it race down his spine to settle hot in his gut. He lets out a shaky exhale, murmurs as though it’s a secret “I need you in my bed.” 

Kurt nods quickly, and they turn tail and race one another up the stairs, for once disregarding the propriety that rules the Anderson house. When they get there, Blaine locks the door behind them (also against the rules, but they’re far past the point where they care) and when he turns around, Kurt is already stripped to the waist, all pale sinew and smooth muscle, kneeling tall on Blaine’s bed, boots and all. 

Blaine feels all the breath leave his body in one shudder and he resists the urge to fall to his knees all the way across the room, because that wouldn’t help anybody at all. Thankfully, at that moment Kurt says “Come here, Blaine,” and Blaine, insecure and unsteady and helplessly aroused, goes. 

Kurt pulls him bodily onto the bed and then pushes him bodily down, and Blaine goes easily, he goes with relief, he whispers “thank you” half a second before Kurt pushes his tongue into Blaine’s mouth. Kurt doesn’t bother to remove Blaine’s thin shirt; instead, his fingers tease Blaine’s nipples through the cloth, and then, when Blaine is gasping air from his mouth, he mouths at a nipple through Blaine’s shirt. They’ve never done this before, and Blaine is distantly shocked at how good the muted sensation feels—he is fully hard within seconds, pushing his chest harder against Kurt’s mouth. He realizes when Kurt draws back for air that he’s been keening “please Kurt please please” for who knows how long. 

Kurt shushes him gently—of course, because for all their recklessness they both know they’re under the Andersons’ roof—undoes his belt with trembling hands, and yanks his pants and boxer-briefs halfway down his legs all at once. He slides down Blaine’s body, and the look he gives Blaine’s cock when it’s released from his briefs to rest swollen and red against his stomach is ravenous. Blaine swallows hard. 

Kurt takes one look up at him, takes one wrist in each hand (Blaine feels tension drain out of his arms and down his back and—), and sucks Blaine down in one go. 

And Blaine is…floating. It’s like he can’t think of anything but the aching pleasure between his legs, can’t do anything but ride the soft wet lush sucking pressure of Kurt’s mouth; it’s like his brain is getting sucked out through his cock and he loves it. He’s writhing, not even trying to control his movements, shoving into Kurt’s open mouth again and again, almost sobbing with pleasure and relief. Kurt’s hands tight on his wrists keep him secure, keep him tied, keep him safe, so he’s allowed to close his eyes and not think and arch his back and wrap his legs over Kurt’s shoulders, he’s allowed to scream out, he’s allowed to have what he needs, he’s allowed to surrender to it, fuck, yes, he’s allowed to just—just—come. 

Kurt doesn’t stop sucking at the head of his cock until Blaine is whining in discomfort and the last drops of come are gone. Blaine sees Kurt rut into the mattress and swallow at the same time, and his spent cock gives a valiant twitch at that—god, god, Kurt, Kurt’s mouth, Kurt’s fucking cock, Kurt’s arousal and sweat and come, his _skin_ fuck it’s all so close yes right now all he wants is to get Kurt in his mouth and—

“Blaine!” _knock knock knock knock_ —Kurt’s eyes flicker open to meet his, his pupils blown wide, his face still resting in the crook of Blaine’s naked thigh. “Blaine, it’s curfew.” Blaine hears his mother try the doorknob only to find it locked. 

There’s a very heavy pause. 

Blaine feels his stomach sink. 

“Blaine, it’s curfew, it’s time for Kurt to go home,” his mother finally says, firmly, and then he hears her footsteps retreat down the stairs. 

Blaine tears his eyes away from his door to find Kurt still watching him like a predator from between his thighs. 

In half a second every thought of his mother, of curfew, of propriety and the importance of abiding by the rules flies out the window. 

He frantically pushes out from beneath Kurt, off the bed, to his knees. His hands reach out blindly and Kurt catches them, and Blaine tugs until Kurt gets the picture, sits at the edge of the bed, his legs—still encased in those fucking boots—bracketing Blaine so close that Blaine can smell the leather. Blaine gives himself a few seconds for worship, nuzzling his face into Kurt’s jean-covered cock as he runs his hands up and down the boots’ sturdy soft leather. Then he inhales (god does he love the smell of arousal, even on himself, but on Kurt—just, fuck), and mouths at the bulge in Kurt’s jeans, feeds off the noises Kurt is making above him, unzips Kurt’s jeans, pulls his cock out, and takes it his mouth with a moan. 

It’s fucking wonderful. It’s always wonderful, but especially like this, beneath Kurt, between his legs. After a moment of Blaine mouthing underneath the head of Kurt’s cock, all ten of Kurt’s fingers lace into his hair and pull until his head is tilted back. Blaine goes easily, his mouth watering and open, and when Kurt pushes in slowly until he hits the back of Blaine’s throat they both groan. From there on out, it’s fast, Kurt lurching steadily further and further into Blaine’s mouth until he’s pushing at the entrance to his throat every time, both of them crying out, Blaine with tears and snot running down his face and loving it, loving it, loving the total lack of control and the lack of air that makes him just a little dizzy and a lot pliable and oh all he wants is to stay here, let Kurt use him, let Kurt take him and push into him, yes yes yes yes—

An indeterminate amount of time later, Kurt interrupts the rhythm, keeps the head of his cock pillowed on Blaine’s lush, swollen lower lip. Blaine’s eyes, which had closed at some point, overwhelmed, open just in time to see Kurt stroking down his cock once, twice—and then he presses back in along the silky flat of Blaine’s tongue, coating Blaine’s mouth with come. Kurt tries to pull out when he’s finished coming, but Blaine’s hands clench on Kurt’s boots, keeping him there, tonguing a little at the head of Kurt’s cock—

_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK_

Blaine jumps about a foot in the air and falls back onto his ass, heart pounding. 

“Blaine! If you do not see your guest out in the next minute, I am sending your father up here. It is past curfew. We will be discussing this later.” 

Kurt, eyes a little wild, follows Blaine to the floor, cradles the back of his head, strokes his cheek, and, finding Blaine unharmed, draws back to stuff himself back in his pants and zip up. “Blaine, are you all right?” he asks, probably the first coherent thing either of them has said since dinner. 

Blaine swallows—swallows half of Kurt’s come, in fact—and nods, beyond words. He watches Kurt yank his button down over his shoulders, fingers working quickly. That done, he presses a solid, closemouthed kiss to Blaine’s lips, stands, and tucks the shirt in. His hair is uncharacteristically messy, his face and lips look absolutely debauched, but it’ll have to do for the thirty seconds between Blaine’s door and the Andersons’ front door. 

“Blaine,” he says, standing over his boyfriend. 

Blaine looks up at him. 

Kurt speaks quickly. “Sweetheart. You’ve been so good for me. I love you. I’m going to call you the moment I get home. Unless you tell me not to, I’m leaving right now because I’m not sure what your parents will do if I don’t, and I don’t think we should find out. Is that okay?” Another nod. “I want you to wash up and get ready for bed and make sure your phone is on so you hear when I call you, okay?”

Blaine sits up fully, straight-backed, nods one last time. 

“Okay,” Kurt breathes. One last pet through Blaine’s disheveled hair, and Kurt is out the door at quick walk, down the stairs, through the hallway—

Blaine suddenly jumps to his feet, hurries after Kurt, padding quickly down the stairs, through the hallway—he catches Kurt in the foyer, catches him at the waist and turns him, leans up on his tiptoes to press his mouth to Kurt’s, just for a moment—

And when Kurt melts into it with a contented sigh, Blaine opens his mouth and pushes the rest of Kurt’s come out of his own mouth and into Kurt’s. 

Kurt startles and his hands clench down where they’re holding Blaine’s neck and hip. Then he pushes in harder, keeping Blaine still as he licks the rest of it out of Blaine’s mouth. Kurt draws back by a millimeter, his pupils completely blown. “Are you trying to kill me?” he breathes. 

“Goodnight, Kurt,” Blaine manages sweetly, and it would sound innocent except they’re so close their lips brush and his voice is scratchy because he just had Kurt’s cock down his throat and all he can smell is sweat and come. 

“Oh my god, Blaine,” Kurt whispers. “We are having words tonight.” Then he presses a kiss to Blaine’s forehead, and marches out the door. 

When Blaine turns around, running a hand through his sweaty hair, his mother is standing at the top of the stairs, still and shocked like she’d seen a ghost. 

_Fuck._

It’s going to be a long night.

* * * 

“So yeah, it’s totally hopeless,” Sam finishes the home spying report at their latest meeting. He and Finn shrug helplessly and take a seat on the locker room bench. It’s been weeks, and they’ve turned up nothing—not a note of smooth jazz, not a sock misplaced in a fit of passion, nothing. 

In light of the continued failure of home spying, the Squad had started what Artie calls the _Ultimate Diversified Plan_ a week ago. In accordance with the UDP, the Squad has been expertly tracking Kurt and Blaine’s complex movements through the outside world. 

…Okay, basically they tail the couple’s cars whenever one gives the other a ride, mostly to see if they ever go to an abandoned parking lot to make out like every other teenage couple ever. (They don’t. Mostly, it seems, they run errands together, and once that week they just drove around the stark fields surrounding Lima for hours, until well after sunset). Also, on Friday, Puck and Sam snuck incognito into some foreign film that Kurt and Blaine went to see in Westerville. (Finn had spotted all the information, date and time and location, noted in Kurt’s planner, carelessly left on the breakfast table one morning while Kurt laced up his boots.) But they didn’t have luck there, either—for one, Puck fell asleep halfway through and had to be ever-so-cautiously be coaxed back awake, since Puck’s first reaction upon waking was typically to punch whoever had just woken him in the stomach. Sam got the wind knocked out of him for his trouble. He did manage to make it sound like a harmless coughing fit, but it still broke the theater’s quiet, romantic atmosphere. 

All in all, not very conductive to witnessing some Kurt-Blaine kisses. Or makeouts. Or particularly daring handjobs.

Puck stands next to Artie and faces the rest of the Squad solemnly, shoulders squared and fists tucked into his jacket pockets. The rest stare up at him, eyebrows furrowed, frowning. 

“This is serious,” Artie finally says, removing his glasses for a moment to press his fingers into his eyes. “We’re running out of time.”

The trouble is that Nationals is only two weeks away, and graduation just two weeks beyond that. There’s a strange urgency in the air—in classes, where the teachers are trying to frantically cram the last hundred years of European history or the last scientific formulas into their students’ heads; in Glee, where first Rachel, then Mr. Schue, and now the rest of them have reached a previously unimagined preparatory frenzy; even at home, where most of their parents have started talking about leaving for college or for another city as a when (with a set date and everything) rather than an if, comfortably light-years away. The Squad has carried this general frenzy, this sense of a clock ticking quickly down, here to the weight room, where they contemplate their final strategies, their very last options. 

It’s victory or defeat. It’s time to go for it. 

“So. What are we going to do?” Sam asks, tossing a football from one hand to the other, his face set. 

Artie steeples his fingers and rests his chins on them. “For now, we continue as planned. But when the right time comes—if absolutely necessary—I have a proposition.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	7. Real in its unspokenness

The trouble is that, clock ticking down, the right time doesn’t come. Artie had figured everything out with Lauren Zizes first thing Monday morning before Calc II, but when all of Monday and Tuesday pass with no hope, the Squad starts to freak out a little. They have text message brainstorming sessions. They hold another 5 a.m. meeting at IHOP Wednesday morning (sans Mike, who they all agree is too nice to lie and probably did actually come down with the flu and puke all night like he texted Sam at 5:05). 

It is in that IHOP, in a haze of half-sleep and strange brain associations, that Finn has an epiphany. 

It’s his mom’s birthday on Saturday. …Which, whoops, he just remembered now and has nothing to show for himself except slightly-better-than-usual grades. Turns out being forced to sit around listening for Kurt and Blaine quietly, like without playing any loud video games or playing any loud music or anything, actually increases his productivity.

Anyway, _focus_ , it’s his mom’s birthday. Which means it’s only the second time she’s had a birthday since she and Burt got married. Which means he can totally tell Burt to do something awesome for her. Something that involves not being in Lima. (And sweet sweet cheesus Finn is brilliant he has the perfect thing.) 

And then Finn and Sam can leave the house and go to Artie’s or whatever. 

And Blaine will already be over for Friday night dinner like always. So then Kurt and Blaine will be home alone. 

And _then…_

_Brilliant._

Finn raises his head from the sticky IHOP table with a rapturous expression and announces “I have a plan.”

* * * 

Burt takes to it like a dog to peanut butter. It’s sort of really nice, actually, how excited he is to make Finn’s mom happy, and how appreciative he is that Finn gave him a push in the right direction. It makes Finn feel guilty if he thinks about it too much, so he tries not to think and just soak up the praise instead. 

This becomes considerably harder at Thursday night dinner when Burt breaks the birthday plan to the family. Finn’s mom smiles so huge and she looks so excited and happy, and when Burt mentions how Finn had been the one to tell Burt how his mom had always wanted to go up to Mackinaw Island but had never found the time and suggested a weekend trip for her birthday, she stands up smiling and hugs Finn super hard and tells him what a good son he is. Kurt is all excited for them too, and later, when Burt and Carole clean up the dishes, he reaches over and squeezes Finn’s hand and tells him what a sweet thing he’d done. And he smiles. Like a real, honest Kurt smile, not the scary kind. Finn hardly ever gets non-scary smiles from Kurt. It feels great for a moment and then he remembers why exactly he’s doing this and then he feels…pretty terrible. And goes back to trying not to think about it. 

10:01 p.m.  
From: Finn  
To: THE SQUAD  
it worked

From: Sam  
Bro i’m next 2 u rn

From: Artie  
So it begins.

From: THE PUCKASAURUUUUS  
get rdy for some gay xxx muthafckrs

From: Mike  
???

It all goes off without a hitch. Friday morning, Sam skips first period and sets everything up to Artie’s exact specifications. During glee, Rachel asks Finn why he’s acting so weird, but otherwise nobody is suspicious even though the whole Squad is hyped up, like nearly to overdosing-on-Vitamin-D levels. Friday night dinner is perfect. It’s an hour earlier than usual, and Burt and Carole’s suitcases are packed and in the trunk of the car so they can get on the road as soon as possible, but they still have a big meal all together, just like always. Blaine comes over, just like always. Finn remembers to lie and say he’s going to Puck’s, and Sam says he’s going a midnight premiere and then crashing at Artie’s because it’s closer—this way Blaine isn’t suspicious or feeling left out that they’ll all be at Artie’s without him. Burt doesn’t say a single word about Blaine and Kurt being in the house together, or a curfew for Blaine to go home. (Which— _hey._ That’s totally not how it works when Rachel’s over. Finn takes a moment to pout.) By the time Finn grabs his bag and takes off towards Artie’s house, he’s feeling pretty great about everything. He high fives Sam, who’s smiling broadly in the passenger seat. 

This is totally going to work.

* * * 

“I can’t believe it.” 

Kurt and Blaine are standing in the Hummel-Hudsons’ foyer, watching Finn and Sam drive away. 

“I know,” Blaine responds, tucking his chin over his boyfriend’s shoulder. 

They have twelve hours, at least, because god knows Finn and Sam never get up early. They might even have fifteen or sixteen hours. 

Yes, the amount of time they have ahead of them seems…obscene. It sends Blaine’s mind reeling with how much he’s going to get to kiss Kurt, with where he’ll be marked by this time tomorrow, with where he’ll ache, with all the new things he and Kurt have talked about but just haven’t had the time or privacy to try. 

The last time they were alone together for this long was one serendipitous weekend a few months ago when Blaine’s dad flew out of Columbus right before they found out his mom’s flight in from Los Angeles had been delayed and then cancelled, leaving Blaine with almost a whole day alone in his house. It wasn’t the first time they’d explored one kink or another together, but it was the first time Blaine—pressed down into his own bed and sucking on Kurt’s fingers while Kurt fingered him—had edged into subspace. And called Kurt “Sir.” And had been made to beg helplessly for more, and (after he came) to beg even more helplessly until a second orgasm overtook him, and he was reduced to a whimpering sensitive come-covered mess. So it makes sense that Blaine is feeling a bit nostalgic. And excited. And needy, definitely needy for Kurt’s touch.

Now he snuggles a little closer into Kurt’s warm back as Finn and Sam’s brake lights disappear around the corner, and Kurt hums contentedly. He turns in Blaine’s arms, leaning back against the front door to regard Blaine contentedly. His arms come to rest, a welcome weight down on Blaine’s shoulders, and Blaine tucks his hands into Kurt’s back pockets with a little grin. 

“Hi, boyfriend,” he says, sneaking a kiss under Kurt’s jaw. 

“Hi,” Kurt smiles. He’s quiet for another moment, and Blaine lets the moment be, content to be looked over and appreciated. It’s all so different now—he’s so different—from when he and Kurt met. Back at Dalton, if Kurt looked at him like this, he’d have been asking himself what Kurt was looking for, and if he, Blaine, measured up, and if he needed to be doing anything to entertain or impress Kurt. But now he just…isn’t. He doesn’t have to, not with Kurt. He knows Kurt is happy with him just as he is. And if Kurt isn’t happy with him, Kurt tells him. He doesn’t have to worry in the meantime. He just has to be. 

Affection warms his belly and he leans forward again, nuzzling at Kurt’s jaw and finally going up on his toes a little to capture Kurt’s lips in a kiss. It’s soft but lush, their lips pushing together and coming apart and pressing back in again and again, neither of them moving to deepen it, just enjoying one another. Blaine can feel Kurt slowly relaxing, his arms heavier and heavier on Blaine’s shoulders, his lips more and more pliant, his fingertips playing slowly now at the base of Blaine’s neck, now at his shoulders, light and reverent. 

When they finally break apart who knows how long later, it’s because they’re smiling too wide to kiss anymore.

“This is all I’ve wanted for weeks,” Kurt admits, hugging Blaine closer. “I need time to be with you. Just you. I’ve missed you.” 

“I don’t know, there’s something to be said for blowjobs while my mom is standing literally five feet away,” Blaine quips, hardly able to keep a straight face.

Kurt stiffens for a split second before he lowers an hand to smack Blaine lightly on the ass. “Oh my god, Blaine, don’t even joke about that,” he giggles. “I’m never going to be able to look her in the eyes again. And we don’t even know how much she really saw.” 

Blaine snorts and tucks his face into the soft warmth of Kurt’s neck, where it curves just right for Blaine to fit. “How do you think I feel,” he complains. “You should have seen her face when she banned me from having you over until after finals. She couldn’t even look at me.” 

Kurt’s chest shakes with quiet laughter before breathes in and his eyes go serious. “This too shall pass,” he murmurs. 

“Yeah, as long as she doesn’t tell my Dad,” Blaine grumbles, though with a hint of real fear. 

“She won’t. And for tonight…” Kurt nudges Blaine back an inch and lowers his head to kiss him slowly. He’s humming lightly when he pulls away to say “Try forget about it.” Another kiss. “There’s no one here.” Another. “Except me.” Another. “And I love you.” 

“You too,” Blaine answers with the smallest grin, nuzzling his nose against Kurt’s. 

“So,” Kurt says, pecking the tip of Blaine’s nose with a kiss of his own, “whatever shall we do with ourselves all night?”

And suddenly Blaine’s slightly anxious for the first time that night. There are so many possibilities. So many. And they’re all good. And they only get an opportunity like this like…twice a year. There’s so much he wants them to try with Kurt that it’s sort of overwhelming if he lets himself think about it. Honestly he could also go for just laying in bed with Kurt, naked skin to naked skin, for the next fifteen hours. 

After a long pause, during which Kurt’s fingers stroke at his neck, Blaine asks quietly, “Kurt, can you decide?”

Kurt’s eyes soften. “Of course, sweetheart.” 

“Just—please don’t stop touching me?”

Kurt tilts Blaine’s face up with gentle thumbs along his jaw. “Oh, love. I wasn’t planning on it.” And then he takes Blaine’s mouth in a kiss.

*

Artie, leaning so close to the computer screen that it’s almost bumping his glasses, throws up his hands in frustration. “Where _are_ they?” 

On the screen are pictures of Kurt’s room from three different angles. The cameras are ( _expertly engineered! brilliantly placed! worthy of Paranormal Three!_ , as Artie had raved earlier) actually live streaming directly from the Hummel-Hudsons’ to Artie’s basement, not that you could tell, given that literally nothing has moved on the screen for the past thirty minutes. 

Puck, leaning over him, growls “I swear to Jesus if they went to a fucking movie when they have the fucking house to themselves I’m going to cut Anderson’s balls off because he doesn’t deserve them.” 

“Dude, aren’t you Jewish?” 

“Shut up, Evans.” 

Finn, suffering from a serious case of cold feet, lounges on one of the couches with a console in his hand, whining for the millionth time, “Seriously, can we just cool it on the Kurt and Blaine thing? And play Super Smash Brothers?” Finn leans forward and narrowly avoids crushing Mike, who is apparently still sick because he’d passed out cold on the floor as soon as he said hi to everyone, about two minutes after he’d arrived. 

“Hudson _are you serious I have been waiting for this moment_ —”

“Just one round. One round, Puck.” 

Sam sighs heavily and backs away from the sickly blue glow of the computer. “Yeah, bro, I’ve got you.”

“Traitor,” Puck hisses, eyes fixed on the screen. 

Sam shrugs and plops down next to Finn. “Call us if gay sex happens, guys.”

*

After a long while kissing increasingly deeply against the front door, and spending a few minutes making popcorn in the kitchen (okay maybe more than a few because Kurt’s not really over the whole popcorn craze and has to experiment with different spice combinations _every single time_ because he just has to find the _absolute best kind_ ), they do actually make it to Kurt’s bedroom. Kurt clicks the door closed behind them out of long habit, and Blaine is briefly tempted to fall back against it and wait for Kurt to take him apart piece by piece, starting at his throat, the way they’d done so many times earlier this semester before glee got crazy and Finn and Sam got…weird. But the temptation passes quickly. He’d asked Kurt to decide what to do. And Kurt had said, “I just want to take my time with you. I want to treasure this. We have so much time. Let’s go slow.” And that sounds perfect to Blaine. 

So they’re starting with a movie— _Moulin Rouge_ , specifically, an old favorite of theirs. Kurt sets up his laptop and puts the popcorn on the bedside table and then pulls Blaine into bed, half under the covers and half out. 

True to his word, Kurt hasn’t stopped touching Blaine for a second—even when both hands were occupied with spices, he had Blaine trapped in front of him, pressed back to front, while Blaine laughed and tried to sabotage the popcorn with excessive cinnamon. Now Kurt tugs Blaine over until he’s laying on top of Kurt, his cheek pressed to Kurt’s chest, his lover’s heartbeat loud and steady in his ear. Kurt’s arms lock behind Blaine’s back, holding him securely, warm against Kurt’s body. 

“Comfortable?” Kurt asks quietly, kissing at Blaine’s hairline. 

Blaine hums happily. “Yes, Kurt,” he says, nuzzling into Kurt’s chest. They’re touching everywhere, and Kurt’s holding him in place, and he’s so warm. And it’s nonsexual enough that—though Blaine can certainly feel arousal thrumming warm and slow, deep in his gut, because god Kurt smells good and he feels so good—he can watch a movie, like Kurt wants. It’s perfect. It’s wonderful. “I’m wonderful.”

“Good,” Kurt sighs happily, and presses play.

*

“HALLELUJAH! PAY UP BITCHES.” Puck is doing some sort of complicated self-congratulatory dance that involves a lot of hipthrusting. 

“Gay sex?” Sam perks up and pauses Super Smash Brothers, craning to see over Artie. 

“Nope, they’re just cuddling,” Artie answers without looking away. 

“What, seriously?” Finn says. “Like… _cuddling_ cuddling?”

Artie’s brow furrows. “I have no idea what that means, Finn.” 

Sam stands and stretches, stepping gingerly over Mike to make his way over to the computer screen. “You don’t understand. Finn and I spied on them for months. We saw them hug, like, once. Ever. For about two seconds.”

Finn stands too, morbidly curious. “I was pretty sure they were allergic to each other or something.”

“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible, Finn,” Artie answers. “Although that would make a great premise for a futuristic medical-drama Romeo-and-Juliet adapta—”

“I THINK WE’RE MISSING A SMALL POINT HERE. YOU ALL OWE ME MONEY.” 

“Puck, cuddling isn’t sex,” Artie repeats for the third time. 

“Oh holy shit, they are cuddling—dude, get over here,” Sam says, leaning over Artie to get a closer look.

Finn leans over Artie’s other side, ignoring Puck’s continued air-thrusting, which is coming a little too close to his leg for comfort. 

It takes a moment for him to take in the picture on the screen. But when he does—“Wow.” 

They’re really cuddling. Like full-out cuddling. Blaine is legit on top of Kurt and Kurt’s arms are around Blaine and they’re cuddling. Actually Finn and Rachel cuddle just like that sometimes because Rachel’s so freaking small. 

“I know. It’s beautiful. A true love story. I don’t think I could ever find actors suitable to play Kurt and Blaine in my tentatively titled masterpiece _Kurt and Blaine: Love in Lima and Beyond._ I might have to ask Kurt and Blaine to play themselves.” Artie tilts his head sideways. “They’re just so aesthetically pleasing together.”

There’s a long pause during which Puck’s thrusting finally slows to a stop (Finn thinks about making a stamina joke but thinks better of it for all their sakes) and they all stare at unmoving couple on the screen. 

“I’m still not over it,” Sam finally says. “All this time I’d been imagining them, like, crafting or something in there.” Finn nods. Kurt owns, like, a _lot_ of glitter. Also a bedazzler. “I thought they had some sort of full-body-no-touching rule going on.” 

“Apparently not,” Finn says, unable to look away as one of Kurt’s hands comes up from Blaine’s waist and starts petting through his hair. 

“Yeah, apparently not,” Sam says. “I wonder how much else we missed.” 

Finn isn’t sure he wants to know. He returns to the nice, safe couch.

*

Halfway through movie, Blaine is getting…a little restless. 

Maybe.

Just a little. 

The thing is—he really loves cuddling with Kurt. He does. A lot. It’s among his top three favorite things in life. And he adores Moulin Rouge. He and Kurt and some of the Warblers spent like a month arranging and rehearsing a Moulin Rouge tribute medley at the end of the last year. The combination of these two things is seriously awesome. It’s so awesome it’s off the awesome scale. 

But. 

But, well. 

The thing is that he and Kurt haven’t had sex since the night Blaine’s mom interrupted them in the middle of the fastest blowjobs ever about a week and a half ago. Blaine could probably have sex with Kurt all night and it wouldn’t be enough. _Okay, not all night,_ he tells himself, _be reasonable_ —but really, yeah, probably all night and most of the next day. That is how much he wants Kurt—all the time. 

_All the time._

When Kurt says hi in the morning all put together but not quite coherent yet, when Kurt’s fingers brush teasingly against the sensitive skin of his inner wrist between classes, when Kurt eats at lunch, when Kurt writes, (okay honestly when Kurt does anything competently with his hands or mouth), when Kurt sings so confidently in glee, when Kurt dances and is just totally inhabiting his body, when Kurt stretches (and his shirt comes up just a little…), when Kurt groans because he’s annoyed at Rachel or Finn or whoever is being obnoxious that week, when Kurt does…pretty much anything. 

Of course Blaine really shouldn’t be thinking about any of this right now because he’s getting even more turned on than he already was from _laying on top of Kurt in his bed_ —and smelling him _everywhere,_ oh god—and that is not going to help him watch the rest of this movie with Kurt like Kurt wants. 

Kurt soothes a hand from Blaine’s neck all the way down his spine. And Blaine—he can’t help it. He squirms atop Kurt, pushing his half-hard cock against Kurt’s thigh before he can stop himself. 

“Mmmm?” Kurt hums, his hand pausing on Blaine’s back where his shirt has rucked up, leaving a strip of skin just above his pants bare. Kurt grazes his fingers along the line of Blaine’s pants, making Blaine’s breath go ragged. 

“I thought you wanted me to decide what we did when tonight,” he says quietly in Blaine’s ear. “Am I going to have to punish you, sweetie?”

Blaine makes his body still with an effort. “No, Kurt.” 

“No?” Kurt’s fingers dip just beneath Blaine’s pants, a tease. 

“I’ll be good,” Blaine says shakily, his world narrowing quickly to Kurt’s heartbeat beneath him and Kurt’s fingers now circling oh-so-lightly where his ass parts—god, fuck, Kurt knows what that does to him. He’s almost completely hard against Kurt’s thigh in seconds. “I’m trying to be good, sir, I promise.” 

“Mmmm, good,” Kurt says. “Then just watch the movie with me, love. We’ll get to everything else, I promise.” He mercifully stops teasing. 

And Blaine tries. He really does. He concentrates on the film—which shouldn’t be so hard, it’s one of his absolute favorites—and when that doesn’t work, he concentrates on Kurt instead—the smooth, even rise and fall of his breath, the steady thump of his heart. The calming parts of him. 

…But Blaine’s so warm and so turned on and every Kurt moves even a little (his fingers petting at Blaine’s hair, his arms hitching to get a more secure grip around Blaine’s waist, his thumb sweetly stroking Blaine’s side) he feels the touch spread on his skin and then deeper, warm and tingling and utterly arousing. 

When Kurt’s hand moves leisurely from stroking Blaine’s hair to stroking the side of his throat, Blaine can’t help it—he gasps and lengthens his throat and circles his hips once against Kurt’s thigh. “I’m sorry I’m sorry” he says right away. “I can’t—” 

Kurt shushes him gently and pauses the movie and sits them up a little —which doesn’t help, because now Blaine is straddling Kurt. And he’s still very, very turned on. 

“Are you trying to be punished, sweetheart?” Kurt asks. 

“I mean—if you think I should be then of course I—” Blaine sputters.

“Not what I asked,” Kurt cuts him off, his tone patient, his hands mercifully still and steadying at Blaine’s waist. 

“Oh,” Blaine says. Of course—sometimes Blaine does really want to be punished, and breaks rules purposely to get there. But not today—he just can’t seem to keep his body under control. (It’s been too long. They’ve been too stressed. Blaine goes to bed some days aching for Kurt to hold him down. He goes to bed other days aching just to be ruthlessly fucked.) Kurt’s gentle thumb over his cheekbone shakes Blaine back into the (precious, private) present moment. “No, Kurt.” He’s not looking for punishment. 

Kurt smiles. His hands stroke over Blaine’s polo where his waist curves in. “Okay. Thank you for being honest with me. We have two options here, then. I can punish you anyway, like usual, because you have been disrupting what we agreed on for tonight. Or—” his voice picks up an adorable excited tinge “—we can try something a little new. I think it might help you. That wouldn’t be a punishment.” He preempts Blaine’s half-formed anxious thoughts—“I don’t mind either way. If I wanted you to pick one or the other, I wouldn’t have you pick in the first place. This isn’t about what I want, okay? It’s about what will help you be good for me.”

“Okay,” Blaine says. 

“So what do you think?” 

Kurt’s eyes are dark and utterly focused on Blaine. 

They have the whole night. 

“Let’s try something new.”

*

“Oh my god _what are they saying,_ ” Puck groans, fingers tearing at his mohawk. 

“Working on it working on it working on it,” Artie mutters, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyebrows furrowed. Half the screen is taken up by a window full of some incomprehensible computer language. 

“Why the hell didn’t Zizes set up the audio?!” Puck wails. 

“I don’t know, Puck, why don’t you go call her and ask and _stop distracting me_ ,” Artie grumbles. 

Sam, leaning over Artie to peer at the couple on the screen, claps Puck on the shoulder solemnly and calls over his shoulder, “Finn, you should really get over here.” 

“Do I even want to know?” Finn asks, the game controller hanging from his loose hands.

Sam turns back to the screen, where Blaine is straddling Kurt’s waist and is apparently quite comfortable there. “I mean. We have been spying on them for months. I think you deserve to see the results, bro. Just saying.” 

Finn frowns, conflicted, and makes his way back over to the screen, just in time to see his little brother (okay, Kurt’s older, whatever, he’s also like five feet shorter than Finn) draw Blaine down for a kiss. 

A deep kiss. 

…Whoa, a _really_ deep kiss. 

The boys go silent. Even Artie’s fingers slow to a stop on the keyboard. 

“Shit just got real,” Sam finally says, watching Kurt pull Blaine harder against him by the neck. (Blaine just sort of…melts into it.) 

Puck’s face is a picture of frozen shocked joy. “Damn, Hummel. Somebody grew up. Seriously, you’re all gonna owe me so much money.”

*

When Blaine’s hips start twitching against Kurt’s again, Kurt knows it’s time to break their kiss. The point, after all, is to help Blaine be good, help him take tonight slow. But Kurt needed to kiss Blaine, and a kiss he’ll never deny himself. At least not alone and safe with Blaine like they are now. That said, the way they’re going, Kurt’s not even going to be able to keep himself at the slow pace he’d decided on, much less keep Blaine there. He can tell Blaine is strained, and he feels it too. It’s been much too long since Blaine was pliant under his hands like this…. 

He gives himself a few more seconds, and then he gentles the kiss and pulls Blaine back by the hair. Blaine arches into it—which is so not helpful, because _fuck, Blaine’s fucking throat_ —but Kurt has pretty damn good self-control, if he does say so himself. He guides Blaine up to sitting position again, then slides out from under him and off the bed. Where did he put that box—?

“Kurt?” Blaine’s voice comes, sounding a little lost. 

Of course—damnshitfuck—his one promise: he’d said he wouldn’t stop touching Blaine. 

“Come here,” he says. He hears Blaine get off the bed, and he turns a little to take Blaine’s hand and draw him forward. “I just need to get one thing.” 

From within the closet Kurt draws out a sleek grey box, and from within the box he produces a length of black hemp rope. 

Blaine hears his own breathing stop. He sways closer to Kurt’s back.

Kurt seems to notice too. And when Blaine makes a slight choked noise—“Blaine. Color?” The anxiety entering Kurt’s voice snaps Blaine out of his daze—

“Green, oh green Kurt, oh thank you,” he says all in one breath. 

Kurt’s whole body relaxes into the sort of self-assured power that Blaine has become accustomed to. He guides them back to the bed and gets Blaine on his back with the slightest nudge. 

“We’ve talked about it so much. I think we’re ready,” Kurt says, smiling a little, hovering over Blaine, rope loose and suggestive in his hands. 

He looks like something straight out of Blaine’s earliest fantasies about submission, when all this was nothing more than one of his many secrets, hardly real in its unspokenness. Nothing more than a dream, and probably just the influence way too much porn, and if the images that came sometimes wouldn’t leave him alone, if he sometimes woke up still begging and then crying when it wasn’t real, well, that was all right. It had to be all right. (What would happen if he admitted it wasn’t all right?) Just teenage hormones, that’s all, he’d told himself desperately. And now, Kurt above him, all smirk and power and muscle and maleness, coiled energy in every inch of him, and the rope, and Blaine’s on his back in bed, god, sometimes Blaine just can’t believe any of this—

“You with me, B?”

“Yes,” Blaine answers, and focuses again. Lately it’s so hard to keep his thoughts from racing—and thank god for this night, this will get him back to the here and now. He offers up his wrists, but Kurt shakes his head. 

“Oh baby, we’ll get there.”

*

“Holy fuck.” 

“Oh shi— _oh, shit!_ ”

“YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT!”

“Oh my god.” 

“ _Artie get the fucking sound working._ ” 

“Oh my _god._ ” 

Silence. Uncomfortable shifting. 

“But I mean who even has like fifty feet of rope lying around I just—”

“Oh my god Sam shut up.” 

“I’m just saying, I did _not_ see this—oh shit, what’s he doing?”

“Sam—”

“Artie would you concentrate on the sound—”

“I’m _almost there_ , okay?” 

“You said that before Hummelina here started going to town on Blaineyboy with his boss bondage skills okay, how much longer do we—”

“ _Done._ ” 

Half a second of blank static, then a low soft moan fills the room. 

“ _Dayyy_ um.”

“I mean there’s surround sound down here so.” 

“Oh god.”

“Oh shit.”

“Can we turn it off now?” 

“No, Finn.” 

“Absofuckinglutely not.”

*

“Okay.” Kurt ties the rope off with a flourish but stays close, tugging at the rope that’s wrapped tightly (and artistically, as he’d insisted to himself when he gotten hard while doing research and then felt a little sleazy,) around Blaine’s bare arms and torso. He adjusts here and there, makes sure it’s not biting into Blaine’s lovely skin too much, certainly not enough to cut off circulation. He has to admit—he’s nervous. They were both excited about bondage, even at the start of all this, so he’s seen this coming for a while. Hell, he’s tied Blaine’s wrists up before, plenty of times. But this is different. This is the result of a lot more research and planning and talking. (Kurt may have also practiced at four or five in the morning on his dressmaking mannequin. Multiple times.)

There’s just something about seeing Blaine utterly physically helpless in front of him that’s a little scary. 

Utterly helpless. Kurt lets himself draw back and look at Blaine as a whole for the first time. Blaine, his beautiful strong arms encased by the knots Kurt made, his whole chest bound up in rope, Blaine still and open and half-naked under him, Blaine looking up at him like he’s a god. Fuck. Kurt is…so aroused. He’s aroused and it’s different than it’s been before; it feels like he’s going down on a rollercoaster—or, no, more like he’s just gone into the dark tunnel of some water slide, pulled deeper and deeper, faster and faster unsure of where he’ll come out. 

He can also feel his heartbeat in his throat and fingertips and his cock. His cock is…throbbing would be putting it kindly. So there’s that. 

Blaine, for his part, is floating. He’d always fantasized about being bound, but he’d never been patient enough to imagine the sheer sensuality of the actual tying-up process. Having Kurt so intent on him, feeling his fingers so precise and sure all over his skin—it’s like crack to his submissive side. And now the rope is tight in the perfect way, the bowtie way, the way that makes him feel secure and safe and put together. The knots around his chest keep him from breathing quite as deeply as he normally might, but that feels secure too. Like Blaine’s movements, even down to his breath, are no longer his. No longer under his control, no longer his decision, no longer his worry. Every time his breath hits capacity against the ropes around his ribcage, a little more tension drains out of him, and soon he is a puddle of compliance on the bed beneath Kurt. 

Kurt grants him one kiss, and Blaine hardly even kisses back, just lets his lips be sucked and bit over and over. He moans a little and he hopes distantly that Kurt doesn’t mind. 

Then Kurt draws back and caresses Blaine’s cheek and says “My sweet boy. Ready to finish the movie?”

Blaine knows vaguely what Kurt is talking about, but mostly he is just humming happily because his dom is happy with him and touching him. He nuzzles into Kurt’s palm and goes along when Kurt sets them back up with watch _Moulin Rouge._

*

“So now we officially know that Kurt and Blaine get up to some weird shit,” Finn says, trying to tune his voice from ‘holy shit what the fuck make it stop’ to ‘reasonable responsible individual.’ “Mystery solved. So can we play Call of Duty now? Please”

Artie grasps his arm bracingly, eyes locked on the exaggerated inward curve of Blaine’s waist on screen. “Finn, they haven’t even had any sex yet.” 

“Oh, god.” 

“There’s no way I’m stopping now, bro; we earned this.” Sam adds, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

“Oh, god.”

“NOOOO poor sweet virgin Finn’s innocence is being taken before our very eyes!” Puck shrieks in Finn’s ear. 

“Shut up, Puck,” Finn growls. His resolve hardens. He can make it through this. It’s just sex. Well, sex and…whatever the hell that rope thing is. (Hey—maybe they just do rope things and don’t have sex! Finn can hope, right?) 

But it can’t last much longer, anyway. So he should just stick it out. (And he does really…weirdly…want to know, he admits to himself—but just because he spent so much damn time trying to figure them out! And he doesn’t want to have to like…watch…to know.)

*

By the time _Moulin Rouge_ ends, Kurt’s patience is reaching an end. Nothing necessarily sexual is even happening—Blaine has been utterly quiet and calm beneath him for the past thirty minutes—and yet Kurt has been half-hard in his jeans since he bound Blaine up. 

Kurt leans up to switch the laptop off, and Blaine makes a small, vague sound of protest. 

“Don’t like that, huh sweetheart?” Kurt says, and he comes back to rest his chin on Blaine’s sternum, just above a knot of black hemp. He strokes a hand over Blaine’s face. “You want me right here, huh?”

“Mmmmm,” Blaine hums contentedly, nuzzling into Kurt’s hands. Kurt smiles—Blaine is so sweet like this. It might be the deepest into subspace he’s ever been. 

It makes Kurt want to pamper Blaine, and also fuck the shit out of him.

It’s on the heels of this thought that Blaine opens his mouth and sucks two of Kurt’s fingers into his mouth. 

Kurt moans, low and wanting. Blaine’s mouth is so hot and slick…. 

“What’s this?” he says, his voice gone a little breathy. He pushes his fingers deeper, meeting no resistance, only eagerness. Blaine’s eyes slide toward his; his tongue slips between Kurt’s fingers, teasing at the sensitive webbing between them. His hips rock up just a little under Kurt. 

“You want something, love?” Kurt whispers. 

Blaine suckles a little harder, his cheeks going hollow. 

“You’re going to have to say it if you want it,” Kurt says, fucking his fingers deeper for a moment before pulling them out entirely. 

Blaine chases them with his lips, dropping his head back to the mattress when they’re out of range. 

Kurt teases along the edges of Blaine’s lips with his saliva-soaked fingers, always just out of reach of Blaine’s wanting mouth, until Blaine is whining continuously, hips circling almost imperceptibly against Kurt’s thigh, which has slipped between his legs. 

“You have to say it,” he whispers again into Blaine’s ear, but without the tease of Kurt’s fingers, Blaine just goes lax under him, nuzzling at his cheek, the only part of Kurt in reach. 

Suddenly Kurt is concerned—is Blaine not just bashful, the way he sometimes he gets when they do this, but actually unable to speak? That’s a thing, isn’t it? Kurt is pretty sure he heard of it somewhere, but he can’t remember—he has no idea what it means for Blaine, no idea, and okay yes he’s freaking out a little which means—“Color, Blaine?”

Blaine’s eyes slowly come to meet his; he seems more or less lucid if not in full possession of his usual intelligence, but after a few seconds of silence Kurt feels panic gathering in his stomach anyway. “Blaine.” He takes his boyfriend’s jaw in his hand. “ _Blaine._ Color.” 

A pause. A terrifying but ultimately very short pause. Blaine’s eyes focus slightly. “…Green, sir,” he murmurs. 

Kurt lets out a relieved breath and presses a kiss to Blaine’s lips, then his forehead. Then he realizes how fast his heart is racing, how vastly off-balance he still feels—“Oh, Blaine, love,” he whispers. “Yellow.” 

He sits back a little, staying close to Blaine, his palms cupping Blaine’s cheeks. 

He watches as Blaine’s eyes clear up little by little; he feels Blaine’s torso and arms giving little jerks beneath him for the first time in an hour. “Kurt,” comes Blaine’s voice, still distant and scratchy. “Kurt. What’s wrong?”

A breath shudders out of Kurt’s tight throat. “Too deep, too fast,” Kurt answers, stroking Blaine’s face reverently. “I just—we can talk in a minute. Is it okay if I untie you, sweetheart?”

“Mmmhm,” Blaine says, and his eyes follow Kurt’s fingers fastidiously as they undo the various knots keeping his arms and torso bound in tight. 

By the time Kurt finishes and sits back, still perched low on Blaine’s stomach, his bent legs bracketing Blaine’s torso, Blaine is a little more coherent, though not quite back to his usual quick self. “What happened?” he asks as Kurt begins to massage one of his palms. Then, when Kurt doesn’t answer immediately: “What did I do?”

“Oh honey, you didn’t do anything, you were very good,” Kurt says immediately. Then he sighs. “I guess we might as well talk now. I mean—I just, Blaine—” He takes a moment to compose himself. He doesn’t want to get this wrong. “Blaine, I’m amazed by the amount of trust you put in me. It’s such a gift you give me.” He pauses again, moving a little further up Blaine’s arm. “I mean that.”

“I know,” Blaine says quietly. 

“That said,” Kurt continues slowly, “I just wasn’t prepared for all that at once. I haven’t done any of this before, you know that. And you went…really deep.” 

Blaine nods. 

“I mean _really_ deep, Blaine—you couldn’t even talk.” 

“I remember,” Blaine says gently. 

“It scared me,” Kurt admits, stilling his hands for a moment. 

“I know,” Blaine says, raising his free arm just a little to stroke at Kurt’s thigh. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m okay. I’m really, really good. And I loved it, Kurt.”

“Good,” comes Kurt’s relieved sigh. 

“So, does this mean no more bondage?” Blaine says, his voice slowly regaining its everyday strength. 

“No,” Kurt says, brow furrowed, as he makes his way to Blaine’s shoulder. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, because it made me go so far down, and you got freaked out….” Blaine answers. “And I—I think it’ll do that every time, Kurt. Especially having you on top of me too…. I mean, you’ve noticed before—how fast I go down when I can’t move? When I have weight on me?” 

“That’s true,” Kurt says. “I guess I shouldn’t have laid on top of you and tied you up at the same time, the first time,” he smiles self-deprecatingly. 

“Oh my god I am not complaining, don’t even start,” Blaine actually giggles. Kurt feels his own face break into a smile, tension lifting. “That was…amazing. _Amazing._ Seriously, as far as knowing the 100% perfect way to take me apart, Kurt Hummel…you did pretty darn well.”

Kurt preens on top of him, and Blaine smoothes his hands up and down his boyfriend’s tight, jean-clad thighs. 

Kurt gathers himself. “So. Bondage. Yes. We both like it a lot, obviously,” he smiles. “But…slower. And I know we already looked into it, but I think we have to do some more research together. So I can be as comfortable as you. And we talk about it a little more—I want to set up a nonverbal safeword, at least, if it’s hard for you to talk. Not being able to check in with you and be sure right away…I don’t want that to happen again, Blaine.” 

“Understood,” Blaine answers. “And agreed. I had no idea I would go that far. I had no idea I _could_ go that far. But—really, just rest assured that I was very, very content with the proceedings.” 

Kurt rolls his eyes and smacks a kiss to Blaine’s lips. “You’re incorrigible,” he murmurs, hovering there. 

Blaine’s hands slide up the insides of his thighs this time. “Very,” he answers, stretching up a little to meet Kurt’s lips again. “In my defense, you’re still on top of me,” he mumbles into Kurt’s mouth. 

Kurt hums against Blaine’s lips, making him giggle at the vibration. “Yes, and?”

“And—are we done talking?” Blaine draws back a bit. “We’re okay? You’re okay?”

Kurt sits up. His sweet, amazing boyfriend (his sub) is laid out warm and pliant beneath him. They still have the whole night ahead of them. They just talked through their first safeword use together, and they’re fine. They’re absolutely fine. He’s honestly not scared anymore. Even if Blaine were to go down that far again—at least now Kurt knows that Blaine was aware and happy. And most importantly, Kurt knows he can get Blaine back up.

“I am perfect, Blaine Anderson.” And he smiles into their next kiss.

*

“I am so confused right now.” Sam is the first one to break the silence once Kurt and Blaine stop talking and start making out on the bed. 

All four pairs of eyes are fixed to the screen, tracking the way Blaine’s arms clutch at Kurt’s back, then his face, before finally dropping uselessly to the bed above Blaine’s head. 

“You know what, I don’t even want to know,” Finn says, though he doesn’t look away from the screen, where Kurt is now taking Blaine’s jaw in hand and forcing his head to the side to get at his throat.

“I think this is beyond even my expertise,” Puck says, brow furrowed in genuine concern. The rest all turn to look at him in shock before Blaine’s thready, broken whine snaps their attention back to the screen. “A man admits his weaknesses,” Puck announces with gusto. “Damn. Means I’m going to have to talk to Lady Hummel after this. Ask for pointers. Up my game,” Puck concludes with a determined nod. 

“I’ve only read about this in fanfiction. And I may have seen…one or two films that explored the aesthetics of bondage,” Artie admits. Suddenly he sits up straighter—“Do you realize what a visual kick this could add? I already had plans to make the cinematography something special, but this—”

He cuts off because Blaine is letting out a veritable wail, his legs coming up to lock around Kurt’s waist. Kurt, meanwhile, is busy working his teeth into the hollow where Blaine’s collarbones meet. 

“Maybe lay off planning your movie for right now, Artie,” Sam suggests when Blaine quiets down. “Just like…soak up the inspiration.” 

“It’s not a movie, it’s a film,” Artie replies automatically, but it’s halfhearted, and a few seconds later he whips out a little notebook and jots down a few things in illegible scrawl.

*

“Should—Kurt—sh-should we slow down?” Blaine gasps from beneath Kurt. He’s almost completely hard, and his mind is spinning with the scent and feel of Kurt—Kurt, who’s just as hard and laying between Blaine’s legs, grinding in progressively more forceful circles. 

Kurt’s hand, which had been sliding up Blaine’s jean-clad inner thigh, pushing it up and out to give him better access, pauses. “Why?” he asks, his voice gone a bit hoarse. 

Blaine’s arms have long since given out, migrating on their own to drop like so much dead weight over his head, but he summons some will and raises one hand to brush the hair off Kurt’s damp forehead. “Because—we finally have time and—and my pants are still on and—”

“Oh, sweetheart, if you wanted your pants off, you should have just said,” Kurt smirks. He draws back slightly to fiddle with Blaine’s belt, which, now that Blaine isn’t quite so distracted with Kurt’s grinding into him, he notices is getting uncomfortable. “Actually now I’m wondering why I didn’t make you strip in the first place,” Kurt adds, working down Blaine’s zipper. He leans down and presses a firm kiss to Blaine’s cloth-covered cock, which twitches and lets out a hearty dribble of precome. Kurt licks at the growing wet spot at the front of Blaine’s boxer-briefs, apparently ignoring Blaine’s low groan above him. “Remind me to keep you naked for me for hours next time,” Kurt adds. 

“Yessir,” Blaine replies, his voice a little higher, not quite containing the arousal that Kurt caused with that image. 

“Oh, do you like that?” Kurt asks, eyes glittering. He looms over Blaine now, back up on his knees between Blaine’s splayed legs. His fingers trace the skin at the waistband of Blaine’s underwear, dipping just the slightest bit under. Blaine holds Kurt’s gaze as his breathing stutters and his cheeks flush, letting his dom seeing every little detail of what he’s doing to Blaine. 

Kurt smiles, and his fingers pause, tucked in the waistband a centimeter from where Blaine’s cock strains to be touched. “Do you like that, I asked,” he repeats. 

“Yes. Yes, Kurt,” Blaine gasps, though he’s no longer sure whether he’s talking about Kurt’s words or the way his fingers are teasing. 

Kurt hums contentedly. His hand slips out of Blaine’s underwear and begins peeling Blaine’s unzipped jeans down his hips. “You want that?” His voice has lowered to a whisper. “You want to be naked for me? You want me to look at you?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Blaine answers, squirming a little beneath Kurt’s focused attention. 

Blaine watches as Kurt draws back for a moment to strip Blaine’s pants down his legs in one swift movement. He pulls of Blaine’s socks more slowly, one by one, taking care to stroke his fingers along the backs of Blaine’s ankles and down the arches of his feet, making Blaine gasp and arch and push his feet towards Kurt. When Blaine’s not aroused, he tends to be ticklish—his feet, the backs of his knees, even his neck—but when Kurt touches him like this, it’s like the touch sinks deeper and moves slower, not like the skittish pinpricks of a tickle at all, more like heat or perhaps a very pleasurable ache. He loves it. He loves Kurt’s touch everywhere. 

“You greedy boy,” Kurt breathes, scratching down Blaine’s foot, making him cry out at the sensation as much as the words, hips twitching up off the bed. One of Kurt’s arms comes up and pushes his hip forcibly back to the bed, and all the air rushes out of Blaine’s lungs in one go. Fuck. God, fuck, he cannot be held responsible for himself or what comes out of his mouth (or doesn’t) when Kurt holds him down…. 

“You just want all my attention, don’t you, sweet thing,” Kurt murmurs. “Such a needy boy, always wanting my hands on you. My mouth.” And softer, “…My cock.” 

Before Blaine can gather enough air to reply Kurt leans down to kiss wetly behind Blaine’s ankle. Blaine squirms, but Kurt just pushes up so his forearm ends up across Blaine’s hips, holding him down quite firmly. Blaine gasps as Kurt’s tongue flickers across the sensitized flesh, and Kurt draws back to send him a truly wicked look, color high in his cheeks. Then he’s back down, opening his mouth this time to suck at the skin behind Blaine’s ankle—Blaine pants; heat seems to spike from his ankle up his leg straight to where his cock is twitching and dribbling precome into his underwear—and then finish off the reddening hickey with a firm bite that makes Blaine push ineffectually against Kurt’s arm on his hips. 

“Very greedy,” Kurt says in a tone that says his suspicions are confirmed. “What do I do with you?” 

Blaine almost answers fuck me, but bites his tongue at the last moment. He ends up gasping some incomprehensible version of Kurt’s name, or maybe _sir_ —there’s not much distinction between the two left to his mind at the moment. 

That seems to be enough. “You want to wait hours for me?” Kurt is pressing kisses to the thin skin behind Blaine’s other ankle, kisses that get harder and harder until they become bites. “Naked and hard and desperate for me?” Kurt continues before laving over the forming bruise with his tongue. “Not knowing when I might make use of you?” 

Blaine is lost somewhere between Kurt’s hot mouth and his words (yes, god, tie him up, tie him up naked and hard and waiting—Kurt maybe watching some stupid reality tv show with Blaine at his feet—no, fuck, under them—yes Blaine could be his footrest, could be made use of for that simple comfort…not knowing when Kurt might make use of him for something quite different…Blaine naked and waiting and used, just for Sir, oh yes….) Blaine is whining, heat racing up his legs, making his cock throb and drool, making him break out in sweat everywhere. 

Kurt kisses up his calf, latches on with his teeth behind Blaine’s knee. Blaine thrashes, makes something near a scream he’s hardly aware of, gasps into it. 

“And what does my greedy boy have for me here?” Kurt drawls, his lips creeping higher on the inside of Blaine’s thigh. His free hand skims along the hard bulge of Blaine’s cock. Blaine tries to press harder into it, but Kurt holds him down. 

Kurt’s kisses turn to bites once more until he’s yanking up the leg of Blaine’s boxer-briefs with his teeth to get at where the inside of Blaine’s thigh meets his ass and perineum. He’d left a hickey just here, once, and he can see the barest remainder of it now, faded to a pale greenish-yellow, barely perceptible on Blaine’s honey skin. He licks over it and feels a fine shudder go through Blaine’s legs. He smiles and ruts down into the bed a little to take the edge off— _fuck_ does he love having Blaine like this. 

Kurt presses Blaine’s hips down even further when he puts all his weight on his forearm, leaning up so Blaine can see his face. “What do you want, greedy boy?” he asks, his mouth an inch from where Blaine’s cock is straining against his rucked-up boxers. He breathes hot air over it when Blaine doesn’t answer immediately, and Blaine twitches under him. 

It doesn’t even hit Blaine that he’s being asked a question until Kurt’s been breathing hot air over his cock—the barest possible tease—for several seconds. And even then all he can get out between gasps is “ _Sir_ —”

“Yes, greedy boy?” comes Kurt’s voice. A fingertip traces the thick vein on the underside of his cock through his boxers. 

“Please sir—” and then he gasps hard because Kurt has reached the swollen, leaking head of his cock. 

“I’m not hearing an answer,” Kurt says, now running his fingertip in the tiniest circles on the head of Blaine’s cock through the sticky cloth. 

“Oh _please_ —” Blaine pants. 

“I’m still not hearing an answer,” Kurt growls, and the finger presses down harder. 

Blaine is going to lose it. “ _Please let me come_ ” he rushes out. His hips are rolling under Kurt’s strong arm, his spine arching little bits at a time; he is wild, far beyond his own control, though clearly not beyond Kurt’s. 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s time for that yet,” Kurt breathes. He replaces his finger with his lips in what Blaine expects to be a light kiss before Kurt’s lips tighten around the clothed head of his cock and _suck_ —Blaine babbles something incoherent, and god fuck no he is going to come _going to come stop stop oh fuck oh god_ —but then Kurt eases up, humming a bit before drawing away and licking his lips—yes, he’s always liked the taste of skin and sweat and especially come. 

“I think—” and Kurt milks the anticipation for all it’s worth, waiting for Blaine’s breathing to even out a little before he continues “—you should earn it.” 

“Yes,” Blaine says, his chest rising and falling heavily. 

Kurt smiles. He kneels up, walks on his knees over Blaine’s torso. Blaine’s eyes are glazed and his pupils taking up nearly the his whole iris. His face and throat are damp with sweat, which Kurt is tempted to lick off. Instead he follows a stronger temptation—he gets Blaine by the hair at the back of his head and wrenches him up and forward. And then he grinds his rock hard, jean-covered cock against Blaine’s face. 

“Get to work, greedy boy.”

*

“I’m never going to be able to look at Kurt the same way again,” moans Finn, watching through his fingers as Kurt rubs Blaine’s face all over his clothed dick. 

“Really? Cause I knew there was gonna be something juicy if we kept looking,” Puck brags. “This is pretty much what I expected from Princess Hummel.” Puck’s eyes narrow and focus on the couple on screen. “I mean he was either going to be into really fucked up shit or be like the prissiest bottom ever, coulda gone either way.” 

“I’m pretty sure you just talked about how Kurt was probably waiting until marriage to kiss Blaine like yesterday, bro,” Sam drawls over Blaine’s whimpers. 

“But I also bet each one of your sorry asses that they’re the kinkiest little shits you’d ever see,” Puck snaps back. “Which means I will be collecting a crapton of money about two minutes after these two finish fucking.” 

“I thought kinky meant like peeing on people, or like, Two Girls One Cup or something,” Finn mutters, but no one pays him any mind.

“There is still the top/bottom debate to settle,” Artie points out, making a few marks on his notepad as Blaine starts working at Kurt’s button fly with his teeth. 

“Oh my god why,” mumbles Finn, still covering most of his face with his hands. 

“I mean, you don’t have to watch, bro,” says Sam, shrugging. “I think you should, like solidarity and all, but.”

Finn turns his finger-covered face to Sam. “You’re telling me I should choose to watch my brother and his boyfriend have sex. You’re telling me I should watch gay sex happen.”

“Um, yeah, I guess,” answers Sam, apparently unperturbed. “We kind of already are.” He gives Finn a glance but quickly turns back to the screen. “This is totally bonding time, bro. Cheaper than paintball anyway, so whatever.” 

Finn is looking at Sam like he’s crazy, apparently at a loss for words. 

“I will give you shit for eternity if you walk away right now,” Puck adds when Finn doesn’t respond, other than inching half a step further away. “Are you seriously afraid of a little dick? Have you ever even watched porn?”

“Not gay porn!”

“Straight porn has dicks in it,” Artie pipes up. 

Puck rolls his eyes and carries on as though neither of them had spoken. “Do you freaking realize how much blackmail we will have to hold over these two for the rest of their lives after this? Holy shit.” 

Finn groans and falls back into line. 

“Just think of it this way—it’s research,” says Sam. “Like, sex research. Maybe you can pick up some moves. I used to watch the other guys at the club strip even though it was kinda weird, just to get ideas. And I’m totally going to work part of this into my stripping routine. And Artie’s making a whole movie out of it.” 

“And the Puckasaurus is always looking for new and improved ways to please the ladies,” adds Puck, eyebrows wiggling. 

“Yeah, exactly,” says Sam. “So there’s got to be something for you too.” Finn still looks leery, so Sam continues, “Or just blackmail Kurt forever. You’re brothers now, and Blaine is probably gonna be your brother-in-law. That’s totally something brothers do.” 

Finn sighs the sigh of the long-suffering. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is enough blackmail for forev—oh god that’s a penis.”

*

“Oh—yes, _good_ boy,” Kurt pants above him. It took several minutes, but Blaine did manage to every last one of the buttons on Kurt’s button fly through its hole and Kurt’s boxer briefs down far enough to kiss open-mouthed at his naked cock. Which is what he’s doing now. With great enthusiasm and abandon.

Blaine is achingly aware of the torture of ignoring his own cock, which throbs demandingly when Kurt pulls Blaine back and then pushes into his mouth. But still—it’s heaven to be here, beneath Kurt, pleasing him. Blaine licks just under the head of Kurt’s cock and watches through his eyelashes as Kurt, still completely clothed but for his open fly and shoved-down briefs, throws his head back, pale neck straining. Something warm and content gathers in Blaine’s stomach, something satisfied and proud; it mixes pleasurably with heat of arousal. He loves pleasing Kurt. He feels so right when Kurt is pleased with him. He would suck Kurt all day if Kurt would like that, if Kurt would let him. He hums contentedly, then leans up on his elbows, trying to get more of Kurt’s cock into his mouth—

And is immediately shoved flat back onto the bed. 

Kurt, pink-faced, chest heaving beneath his button-up shirt, stares down at him. His legs bracket Blaine’s head. “What do you think you’re doing, greedy boy?” 

His eyes are so focused on Blaine’s that Blaine can hardly think. Kurt isn’t physically holding him down now, but Blaine feels heavy, weighted down, pressed to the bed.

He also feels very, very small. Contained. 

Kurt raises and eyebrow when Blaine doesn’t immediately answer. One of Kurt’s hands strokes once down his own flushed cock, just inches from Blaine’s face. A pale finger collects a drop of precome from the tip, and Blaine’s eyes follow its progress toward his lips. His mouth drops open and he leans all of two centimeters forward in anticipation, but Kurt’s other hand comes up, pushes his forehead back down flat to the bed. 

“What does my greedy boy want?” Kurt asks, this time whispering. 

“I—I—Sir—” Blaine squirms, eyes flickering between Kurt’s hard cock and his eyes. 

Kurt hums. He puts his hand back to Blaine’s hairline, holding his face perfectly still. Then his come-covered finger traces around and around Blaine’s parted lips, never close enough to taste. Blaine’s breath shudders out of him and his eyes flutter closed. 

“Say it,” Kurt commands. 

Blaine’s world has narrowed to the only point of contact between them—Kurt’s finger, dry now, follows the line of his jaw down his throat and rests on the purpling bite mark covering the dip between his collarbones. Blaine shudders and swallows hard. 

Behind his eyelids, something somewhere shifts—clicks into place. Here in the dark, Blaine can let himself feel it, can let himself know—he feels—he feels—safe here safe with me he is allowed to feel this Kurt is here and that means Blaine is—owned. He feels owned. He’s glad his eyes are still closed—he feels a little dizzy. “Use me,” he breathes through a tight throat.

He can feel Kurt go still above him. “Open your eyes,” Kurt says evenly. Blaine does. 

“Now tell me,” Kurt repeats. 

“Use me, sir,” Blaine answers, quiet. And quieter still, “Please.” 

Kurt pauses. Then, the barest hint of a grin. “There’s my good boy again,” he says. “Open your mouth, sweet thing. And don’t move.” 

Blaine does so. He closes his eyes and leaves them closed. His mouth waters, his lips part. His cock, neglected for several minutes now, twitches with sudden interest. 

But Kurt doesn’t slide his cock into Blaine’s mouth immediately, like Blaine is expecting. Instead, Blaine feels the hot slick head of it rub over his slightly stubbly chin—Kurt gasps above him—then his cheek, and finally it teases over and over his lips, never dipping between them. Blaine knows better than to move—he is still and gratefully takes the little tastes of precome that his tongue swipes up from the edges of his lips; he breathes in the heady smell of Kurt’s cock, the heavy scent of arousal all around. No, Blaine will not move, he knows better, even as the tease of Kurt’s cock so close to his watering mouth becomes almost unbearable and he starts to whine at the back of his throat and bring his wetted lips together in a lush, reverent kiss every time Kurt’s cock slides over them. 

“Is my good boy getting greedy again?” Kurt murmurs from above him. “Hmmm?” 

Blaine whimpers and maybe he squirms just a little. 

“Do you need a longer lesson in patience, little minx? Or will you be good for me? Answer me.” 

“I’ll be good, sir,” Blaine whispers. Kurt’s precome is sticky on his lips as he speaks. 

“Open your eyes,” Kurt says.

Blaine opens his eyes. 

“Open your mouth,” Kurt says, his voice going gravelly and low. 

Blaine opens his mouth. 

“There’s my good boy,” Kurt sighs. And then he slides his cock in past Blaine’s lips and in down the length of his eager tongue and in past the opening of his throat and in and in until he is buried to the hilt in Blaine. 

Blaine nearly cries with gratitude and joy. He waits out his gag reflex and feels his hips undulate uncontrollably, looking for something, anything, to grind against. Yes yes yes yes god, fuck, this, just this, all he wants is this, Kurt in him and above him and using him—

Kurt pulls back, and Blaine sucks in half a breath around his cock, and then Kurt pushes back down his throat, groaning above him, the buttons of his jeans digging into Blaine’s cheek. Kurt holds his cock down Blaine’s throat a little longer this time, grinding a little against Blaine’s face, before finally pulling off. Blaine coughs a little, gasps for breath—he hadn’t even realized how much he needed air—but then Kurt is pushing back into his mouth again, pushing back down his twitching throat, and Blaine sinks down down down gratefully, his whole body shuddering for moment, his eyes fluttering closed before he remembers Kurt’s command and opens them again. 

Kurt is staring down at him, eyes and mouth wicked, looking utterly debauched despite his almost-fully-dressed state. He leans further down, putting all his weight on one fist in the pillow above Blaine’s head, his cock nudging just a twitch deeper into Blaine. His free hand traces Blaine’s ear, then down his throat, and up his throat, and back down again, and up—he’s pushing a little harder now, not tracing so much as—and that’s when Blaine realizes that Kurt is stroking his own cock through Blaine’s throat. Like Blaine is just helping him jerk off, like he’s nothing more than a hot squeezing sheath for Kurt’s throbbing cock— _ohfuck_ —Blaine feels himself break out in gooseflesh, and his cock twitches and leaks against his belly. Kurt’s cock twitches in his throat, too, his fingers pushing in a little harder one last time before he pulls out of Blaine’s mouth entirely. 

Blaine sputters and gasps, suddenly aware of how hot his face is, how his eyes are watering, ears ringing. “Breathe, breathe, baby,” Kurt is cooing, fingers petting down Blaine’s damp cheeks and through his gnarled hair. “You did so good, needy boy, all you wanted was some cock, huh? That’s all you needed.” 

Blaine’s still breathing hard, but it’s starting to even out when Kurt abruptly threads all ten fingers into Blaine’s hair, tilts his head, and slides his cock down all the way Blaine’s throat again. Blaine spasms—he arches up and his hands grasp at nothing and his hips rock up against empty air, cock rubbing against his boxers. Kurt pulls out again after only a few seconds this time, hushing Blaine as he gasps for air and maybe cries just a little, hips twisting around, trying to find any friction and getting none. 

“Good, good boy,” Kurt breathes. “Oh, such a good boy, such a good mouth,” he says, pressing Blaine’s head back against the bed. His cock is expected this time, and Blaine sucks at the whole hot length of him before Kurt gets too deep and all Blaine can do is take it and wait and wait and wait and throb with want and keen his desperation around Kurt’s cock until Kurt sees fit to pull it back out again, murmuring praise as he strokes Blaine’s teary cheeks. Blaine’ face is hot with exertion and perhaps shame buried beneath a heavy, heady layer of lust. He knows Kurt wouldn’t want him moving his head—the idea that he could hardly crosses his mind—but, still breathing hard, he daringly stretches his tongue all the way out of his mouth to catch a drop of precome from the slit of Kurt’s cock. 

“Oh my, such a greedy boy, you want more?” Kurt’s voice is low, almost dangerous. He doesn’t give Blaine a chance to answer before pushing back down Blaine’s throat—Blaine hardly has a moment to adjust before he’s pulling out again—Blaine goes to breathe and ends up thrashing, unable to cough as Kurt’s cock is pushed back down his throat—and out again—and in—

Kurt is officially fucking his face. _Ohhhh god_ —Blaine would moan it out but he’s too busy with the cock in his throat—god fuck yes yes yes he loves this, loves the power of Kurt’s body over him, loves the utter helplessness of his _face_ being fucked open, loves the physicality of being pushed into, loves the depraved jolt of lust he gets from a cock in his mouth. Kurt’s thrusts get shorter and shorter until the head of his cock isn’t even leaving Blaine’s throat and the root is never more than an inch from the seal of Blaine’s wet, stretched lips. But the thrusts never get less forceful, and before long Blaine is lost, beyond time, yanking air down his raw throat whenever Kurt pulls back more than a little, tonguing at the thick vein on the underside of Kurt’s cock when the impulse drifts by, mostly laying back, lax and open and dribbing tears and saliva and precome, letting himself be fucked. It hardly registers when Kurt shoves all the way in and holds there, holds a little longer, grinding—and then the hot shock of his come in Blaine’s throat jolts Blaine up from his daze, and he moans around is, tonguing everywhere he can reach on Kurt’s shaft, wishing he could taste it. 

Finally, Kurt draws his spent cock all the way out of Blaine’s aching throat. He strokes Blaine’s face and wipes sweat off his forehead as Blaine coughs and gets enough air for the first time in…a while. He kisses along Blaine’s hairline and over his cheeks and finally his reddened lips, gently, as Blaine’s breathing calms a few minutes later. “Such a good boy,” he says. “Very, very good boy for me. Love my good boy.” A kiss. “How are you, sweetie?” Another kiss. 

“Wonderful,” Blaine rasps against Kurt’s lips. “Sir.”

*

Silence. 

“I literally cannot believe I just watched that happen,” Finn says. He sounds a little shellshocked, and Sam claps him on the shoulder, startling the rest of the boys out of their daze. 

“I’ve never gotten a blowjob like that in my life,” Puck says, voice hollow. “I feel so empty.” 

“Maybe you should ask Blaine,” Artie says, eyes locked on the couple cuddling on screen. Artie has been very, very still for the past thirty minutes. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea bro,” says Sam. “I feel like Blaine would say no. And possibly never talk to you again. Plus Kurt might kill you.” The Kurt on the screen, cuddling in close to Blaine and stroking him with light fingers, does not look capable of murder. Then again, about three minutes ago he was choking his boyfriend with his dick and getting off on it, so clearly he has hidden depths. 

“I might just ask Kurt to kill me,” Finn says. “Or at least stab my eyes out.” 

“They’re not _that_ bad looking,” Sam answers, exasperated. (“They’re really not,” Artie mutters into his lap.) “I mean, yeah, they’re guys, whatever, we all knew that before. Get over it.” 

“This is not even about them being guys right now,” Finn begins. “Do you realize that I am going to talk to Kurt and Blaine like at least once a week for the rest of my life? And I’m going to see them every Christmas. And I’m going to, like, crash at their place once in a while and eat all their leftovers and I’m going to meet their kids one day and they’ll call me ‘Uncle Finn’ and—”

“You’ve put almost as much thought into this as I have,” Artie observes. 

“And?” Sam prompts Finn.

“And every time I do any of those things, any time I think about them, I’m going to be thinking about, like, Blaine getting all red because Kurt has his…his dick down his throat, and Kurt saying ‘good boy’ and—”

“Unforeseen consequences,” Puck sighs dramatically. “You poor little vanilla babies—“ (“I was a _stripper_!” interjects Sam, offended) “—expected to see two innocent virgin boyfriends share some popcorn and maybe hug it out at the end of the night. You should have prepared yourselves for the true reality. Which is that Kurt and Blaine are in fact more filthy and kinky than you, Finn, or you, White Chocolate, or you, Artie, or even I, Sex Master Puckerman, might ever hope to be.” 

“Puck that is seriously not helpful,” moans Finn, looking slightly green. “And like…you’re talking about my baby brother there.” 

“Stepbrother,” Sam says. “Otherwise this would be super fucked up.” 

“I’m sorry, _what about this is not fucked up_?” Finn begins, but Artie shushes him. 

“Shut up, Finn, they’re talking.” 

The four of them lean in closer to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	8. Filthy and powerful

“How’s your throat doing, love?” Kurt asks softly. 

He’s laying half next to and half atop Blaine now, his face nestled between Blaine’s throat and shoulder, Blaine’s arm clutching at the back of his collared shirt. He’d intended to be a calming, grounding presence for Blaine for the moment, but every time he breathes out too hard, Blaine’s entire throat turns to gooseflesh and his hips twitch up just a bit. Kurt admits to himself that that’s probably fair—he has been keeping Blaine on edge for a while. He also admits to himself that he’s enjoying it greatly. God does he love Blaine desperate. 

“Okay,” Blaine rasps. Kurt raises his eyebrows. “Sore,” Blaine amends. “Worth it.” 

Kurt presses a kiss to the side of Blaine’s throat, half as the comforting gesture it appears to be, and half because he guesses that, this far in, it’ll make Blaine shake. Sure enough, Blaine arches his neck toward Kurt and Kurt can feel the muscles in his arms shivering. “Did that on purpose,” Blaine whispers accusingly. 

“Mmmmhm,” Kurt hums with a wicked little smirk. 

“Meanie,” Blaine croaks. Kurt, grinning, smacks his cheek very lightly, just enough to feel a little sting. “Sir,” Blaine adds belatedly, with a side of sass. 

“Better,” Kurt laughs. He gets up onto his elbows. “Sweetheart, I want to make you some tea for that throat, so—”

“Kurt,” Blaine whines. “Sir, please.” 

Kurt is mildly impressed. Blaine isn’t always good at asking for what he wants, especially if he has to contradict Kurt to ask or thinks it’s not what Kurt wants. Kurt usually has to wring it out of him—but perhaps he’s done enough wringing today that it’s finally sunk in. (…Or maybe he’s finally broken Blaine with sheer desperation, he thinks with wicked satisfaction.) “Yes, love?” 

“Sir, I....” Well, Blaine’s clearly still having trouble vocalizing it. Blaine cuts himself off with a huff and stares down his own damp body at his cock, half-hard and trapped in wet, clinging boxer-briefs. “I just….” He gestures feebly at the lower half of his body. 

He’s doing so well that Kurt decides to take pity on him. “You want to come, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” Blaine lets out in a relieved sigh. 

“Oh, I know you do,” Kurt says, skimming a hand down the center of Blaine’s torso and stopping just short of his underwear. 

“Sir—anything—please,” Blaine begs softly. Well, that didn’t take long. Kurt can feel Blaine’s abs shivering under his hand. 

“We’ll get you there,” Kurt says lightly, sitting up but keeping his hand on Blaine’s belly. “But first—” he reaches over, yanks open the drawer of his bedside table, and emerges with a water bottle “—first, if you don’t want tea, you are going to drink this entire water bottle.” 

Blaine groans disappointedly, but it soon dissolves into a coughing fit. 

“You’re making my point for me, here, honey,” Kurt says dryly. He opens the bottle for Blaine and guides him to sit up just a little against the pillows. Blaine sips at it slowly, Kurt’s hand petting through his sweaty hair, and despite his earlier complaints, he thanks Kurt when he’s done several minutes later. 

“There’s my good boy,” Kurt grins, playful, and Blaine smiles back. He guides Blaine off the pillows and onto his back once more, and Blaine automatically swings his arms to rest over his head, crossed at the wrist. 

“Eager, are we?” Kurt teases, tracing his fingers along the undersides of Blaine’s arms. 

“You have no idea,” Blaine groans, arms shivering under Kurt’s touch. He’s less than half-hard now, and he and his dick both are grateful for the breather. But he’s still turned on—it’s hard not to be, with Kurt so close—and his skin still feels like it’s buzzing everywhere, jumpy and oversensitive. 

“Mmm, I think I do,” Kurt murmurs, his fingers tracing Blaine’s collarbones now, his pecs, circling his nipples. “You’re all spread out just for me. Delectable little thing.” He pinches lightly at the dip of Blaine’s waist, and Blaine scrunches up his nose adorably. 

“Kurt, could—it’s just—” Blaine cuts himself off, frowning lightly. 

“What is it?” But Blaine only presses his lips together and squirms. “Don’t make me spank you, sweetie. Just tell me. You know you can say anything to me. It’s safe.” Kurt’s hand strokes soothingly along Blaine’s shoulder. 

Blaine sighs a little and pulls Kurt’s free hand up to rest over Blaine’s eyes, which flutter closed under his palm. “Safe,” Blaine murmurs, giving Kurt’s hand a squeeze. Kurt makes a mental note to blindfold Blaine as soon as possible. And, god, also gag him—not at the same time, not yet—and not until they figure out a nonverbal safeword—oh, Kurt’s getting away from himself, and Blaine is speaking again— “I just—I don’t—I—Kurt—” 

It’s not exactly an auspicious beginning, but Kurt knows he’s trying. Kurt moves the hand stroking at Blaine’s shoulder to a get a firm, though not restrictive, grip around the bottom of his throat. Blaine’s breath shudders out, and he goes boneless. “Speak,” Kurt orders.

“Sir, I don’t want to seem like I’m trying to take over because I love you more than anything and I love this more than anything and I don’t want to be in charge I want you to be in charge but I just, I, I want, I just want to feel your skin—I mean it was so hot to—to have you in my mouth when you had all your clothes on, and I was almost naked, and—but—now I just—I want to feel your skin on me so badly, I need—I—Sir—please—”

Kurt shushes him to calm him down. “You don’t have to be afraid to ask for things like that, baby,” he says. “You’re not being punished. This is for both of us. You can ask for anything you want, and that doesn’t mean you’re out of line. Okay?”

“Okay,” Blaine says quietly. 

“I’m very proud of you for telling me, Blaine. My brave little boy.” 

“Thank you sir,” Blaine whispers. 

“Now.” Kurt lifts his hand from Blaine’s eyes slowly, and they blink open little by little. “I believe you had a request.” 

Blaine nods, biting at his lips. 

Kurt swings up off the bed, standing disheveled but still mostly clothed, and watches fondly as Blaine’s pupils widen, taking him in. Kurt unbuttons his shirt slowly, watching with amusement and not a little pride as Blaine fixates on each new inch of skin revealed. 

“You did so well with my pants last time, baby,” Kurt says when he’s halfway down his shirt. “Why don’t you help me with those again? You may use your hands.” 

“Thank you sir,” Blaine says. 

Kurt pushes his shirt off and lets Blaine pull his pants off. He throws them both off to the side of the bed—after all the rolling around and sweating he’s done, they’ll need to be cleaned and pressed regardless of their treatment at this point—and turns back to Blaine. Blaine, back on the bed, reaching up to him hesitantly, sliding worshipful hands over his shoulders, his chest, down his thighs. Kurt smiles, a benevolent god, and presses a kiss to Blaine’s forehead. Any kind of affirming touch—giving and receiving—is undeniably a reward for Blaine, if Kurt cares to think of what they do in terms of punishment and reward. …Which gives Kurt an idea. 

“Turn over, sweetheart,” he says. Blaine does so without question, settling back to stillness almost immediately. Good boy. Kurt hops back on the bed and rests one hand heavy at the back of Blaine’s neck and takes a long moment to enjoy the beautiful musculature of his back. They so rarely have enough time to just take one another in…. Kurt traces a gentle finger down the length of Blaine’s spine. He hasn’t paid nearly enough attention to this side of Blaine. Hasn’t paid enough attention to any of Blaine, really—Kurt would be happy to spend half a day on Blaine’s inner thighs alone, for example—but his back in particular is relatively uncharted territory. Kurt’s finger bumps to a stop at the line of Blaine’s tight, torturous little boxer-briefs, shaking him out of his daydream. 

Yes. He’s going to take his time. 

First he lays himself right on top of Blaine just because he knows Blaine will love it. (He can spoil his boy once in a while, can’t he?) Sure enough, Blaine goes lax beneath him and mumbles out happy sounds. Kurt grins and then digs his teeth right into the back of Blaine’s neck where it curves out into his shoulder. Blaine gasps and tries to arch into it, which is hard to do with all six feet of Kurt on top of him. Kurt releases the bite and tries not to feel too pleased with himself for the rather distinct tooth marks he’d left. (He mostly fails. He is very pleased with himself.) “Okay?” he checks in, since Blaine has already gone completely loopy on him once tonight. He’d rather be forewarned if it’s going to happen again. 

“Yes, Kurt,” comes the prompt if mumbled reply. 

“Are you getting sleepy, baby?” he asks, licking wide stripes over the bite mark. 

“No sir,” Blaine answers. “So so happy, sir.” 

Kurt preens a little, since Blaine can’t see. Privacy, time, and his happy submissive beneath him. This is heaven. 

“Good,” Kurt answers, and then he goes back to kissing his way down Blaine’s neck, across one shoulder and then the other, then down the shoulder blades where bone and skin are so close—which turn out to be sensitive. 

“You like that?” Kurt lifts his mouth away from where he’s sucking long enough to ask. 

“Yesyesyes” comes Blaine voice in a rush. Two calming breaths, then “but—but maybe—could you bite more please sir—”

Kurt immediately bites down where he’d been making a hickey, and Blaine yelps, thrashing a little beneath him, grinding his hips into the mattress. “You do like that, huh?” Kurt whispers into the sweaty expanse of Blaine’s back. “You want me to mark you up?” 

“Oh yes, always,” Blaine breathes. 

He’s actually elaborating beyond ‘yes’—Kurt can hardly believe it—another reward, then. Kurt bites down again, just next to the previous bite, and Blaine cries out again. He thrashes a little less this time, and Kurt pets down his side soothingly. “There’s my good boy,” he says. “You like that?” Blaine nods. “More?” 

“Yes, sir.” Blaine’s lips are barely moving. 

But Kurt wants to push him. “Tell me,” he says, sucking teasingly at Blaine’s other shoulder blade. 

“Bite m-me,” is all Blaine manages. Then he pushes his face into the bedspread. 

“Shh, shh, no don’t hide, pretty boy,” Kurt says. He kisses his way up Blaine’s shoulder and neck. “You did very well,” he whispers into Blaine’s ear. “Show me that handsome face.” 

Blaine slowly emerges from the plush bedspread, turning until his face is sideways on the bed. 

“Very good,” Kurt says. He nuzzles teasingly at Blaine’s newly exposed jaw, and then when he makes it back to the sharply defined corner, he nuzzles his way just under it and bites down. Hard. 

Blaine cries out and goes a little wild under him, but Kurt manages to press Blaine’s arms down to the bed with his own; he threads his fingers through Blaine’s, and Blaine squeezes, hard—Blaine squeezes and grinds his hips down and actually sort of screams, pushing his neck further into Kurt’s eager teeth. Kurt knows why Blaine is reacting so strongly (and why Kurt himself feels his spent cock give an interested if slightly painful twitch): Kurt marks up Blaine’s collarbones and lower throat often enough, but he never bites this high up—and for good reason, it’ll be near impossible to hide. But he can’t bring himself to care at the moment. 

Kurt bites to his heart’s content, and then he eases off until it’s more a gentle gnaw than a bite, and finally he’s just suckling at the skin, laving soothingly over the reddened, bruising area whenever Blaine gets too worked up and nipping whenever he’s on the edge of calm. 

God, if he could spend half a day on Blaine’s inner thighs, he could spend about a week on his throat. He loves how reactive Blaine is when his neck is involved. He loves that he’s close enough to hear all the little aborted whimpers that Blaine tries to contain. And there’s something else, too, something primal about being allowed—really more like desperately, guiltily encouraged—to mark Blaine here, to hurt him a little even, in this most vulnerable place. 

But—Kurt eases off reluctantly—he’s spent comparatively plenty of time with his sub’s throat. Tempting as it might seem at this moment to see if he can bring Blaine off just by sucking and biting at him there, he will curse himself later for not taking the time to explore the rest of Blaine. 

Namely, that delectable back. 

He slides back down, spending a little time touching up the purpling hickeys on Blaine’s shoulder blades (all right, not really, they were already lovely looking—he just wants to hear Blaine’s fraught little whimpers) before he begins again at the first knob of Blaine’s spine. He gives a moment’s thought to biting start to finish, leaving Blaine with bruises blooming from his nape all the way down his backbone, but he thinks better of it. For one, after so much teasing, he’s not sure Blaine can take all that without coming in his boxers, poor thing. For another…. 

For another, well, it sounds like a much better idea to start lightly. Kurt traces just the wet tip of his tongue around and around and around and around the top of Blaine’s spine until Blaine’s every exhale is a soft keen. Kurt’s sure Blaine’s new bruises are throbbing; Blaine’s hips circle bit by bit into the bed. Kurt leans back for all of two seconds and smacks Blaine’s ass (firm but not stinging) to still them, and Blaine’s hips jolt back. Not much of a punishment—Blaine tends to react to pain as though it were pleasure whenever his ass or Kurt’s teeth are involved—but it will do for a warning. Kurt lays his weight back down on Blaine and hears his breathing stutter. 

_God_ does he love Blaine like his. 

Kurt does eventually move on to the next vertebra, and the next, and the next, still licking, still teasing. When he gets about even with Blaine’s shoulder blades, he lets himself kiss too, giving Blaine the infinitely soft touch of his tongue and the slightly greater pressure of his lips in turns. Blaine is breathing heavily above him, and Kurt grins a bit against Blaine’s skin, taking that as a good sign. He continues downward, kissing harder and harder until he’s sucking at each individual vertebra in the small of Blaine’s back. It’s hard to resist digging his teeth in, so as he approaches Blaine’s pelvis he sucks harder, lets the flesh slide back out and scrape through his teeth on the way. Blaine shudders and pushes up against Kurt, moaning quietly, as though he aches. Kurt hums, wickedly pleased, in response. 

When he reaches Blaine’s waistband, Kurt unceremoniously strips Blaine of his boxer-briefs, which are so soaked with precome in the front that they’re probably ruined by this point anyway. Then he lowers his mouth to a centimeter from where Blaine’s ass parts and breathes on it. 

Blaine squirms. (Oh does he squirm—Kurt takes perverse pleasure in looking up the line of Blaine’s spine as it twists, the fine musculature beneath his reddening skin shifting with every twitch. Poor helpless struggling little sub that he is….) Blaine writhes and bends and even grinds into the bed a little, but Kurt gets one forearm across the small of Blaine’s back and one beneath his ass and holds him still, keeps him just there, breathing hot air right where he parts. 

(Oh, they definitely have to try bondage again. Soon, Kurt decides.) 

Eventually Blaine’s whimpers dissolve into pleading, which in turn dissolves into hitching sobs. Kurt might be concerned, except that Blaine is still trying his damndest to push back toward Kurt’s face (and occasionally trying to grind down on the bed), despite Kurt’s arms holding him firmly in place. So Kurt (ridiculously turned on and even hardening a little again, much quicker than usual) takes pity on him at last. 

Blaine freezes at the touch of the tip of Kurt’s tongue, which circles oh so slowly around and around and around the part of his ass. Every breath in and out of Blaine turns deep and jagged, and Kurt revels in it, grinding his own increasingly interested cock down into the bedspread. 

He moves just a little closer—the flat of his tongue now, not just the tip, almost more of a tease because it’s more contact but less pressure. This time he doesn’t torture Blaine for long—Kurt himself only has so much self-control—and soon his lips touch the tender skin too, kissing it, sucking and pulling at it—

Kurt is sure that Blaine has realized by now what comes next, because as soon as Kurt’s teeth scrape lightly over where his ass parts, Blaine gasps out “Sir—”

Kurt hums, sucking at Blaine’s slick, reddening skin once more. “Yes, little one?” 

“Oh—” Blaine gasps as Kurt sucks harder; he can’t seem to get words out. Kurt lowers his mouth to nip very, very lightly—Blaine will just have to struggle a little. 

“Ssss—” this too dissolves into a hiss, which turns into a gasp, which turns into a moan, which sounds suspiciously like “ _Sir_.” 

“Yes?” Kurt answers again. He scrapes the flats of his teeth down over and over and—

“Sir I—if—sir _I’m gonna come_ —”

Poor little thing. Kurt kisses over the slick mess of it. “No you’re not,” he answers. 

“Sir—I— _please_ —”

“You may not come,” Kurt answers, and Blaine wails out some incoherent plea. 

Well, Kurt’s certainly not done with Blaine yet. So giving him permission to come is out. But perhaps—Kurt pulls at Blaine’s hips until he’s up on his knees, his face still pressed to the bed, ass in the air, cheeks spread deliciously. This way, Blaine’s cock is getting absolutely no stimulation. That should help.

It has another extra benefit—it looks like Blaine’s body is begging for it.

Oh, yes, Kurt likes that. He likes that a _lot._

He falls back to Blaine, kissing his way from a little ways up Blaine’s back down to where he’s been sucking a hickey where Blaine’s ass parts. Almost as soon as his lips touch the spot, Blaine is squirming again, but Kurt just grins and takes a proper bite. 

“Ohhh, sir,” Blaine pleads. He gasps, and gets out all in one breath: “Oh sir, oh please, please please please let me come let me come let me—” 

Kurt just smiles, lets up on the bite, and slides further down to suckle between Blaine’s cheeks, still a little above his hole. “Mmm, you like that, huh, sweetheart?” He pulls at the skin just above his hole and lets it go with a sucking _pop._

“Oh yes yes yes sir,” Blaine pants. 

Kurt slides down a little more, teasing at the edge of Blaine’s rim. “You want more?” 

“Oh yes, oh sir— _sir_ —” 

Kurt scrapes his bottom teeth against Blaine’s rim. Then he whispers, “Beg for it.”

*

“ _Dayum_ , Hummel.” Puck crosses his arms and nods solemnly as Blaine starts to beg on screen. “Princess has got our boy wrapped around his little finger. And also probably his dick.” 

“Seriously,” Sam adds.

“Respect,” Artie agrees. 

Finn fakes a gag.

“Hey, buddy, you sound like Blaine about thirty minutes ago!” Puck says with fake enthusiasm as he claps Finn on the shoulder. 

“Nooo,” Finn groans. 

“No, you don’t sound like you’re choking on Princess’s dick? Because it sounded to me like you just had some penis in your mouth, bro. Might want to get that checked out.” 

“Oh my god stop,” Finn moans, covering his face. Sam and Artie spare him a glance before turning back to the screen at an impressively loud, long groan—apparently Kurt finally got his tongue in.

Puck jostles Finn a little, playful. “You still sound like Blainers, Finnocence.” 

“Noooo,” is all Finn can come up with, freaked out as he is, which doesn’t much help his case. He knocks his shoulder against Puck’s harder, enough to make Puck almost lost his balance. 

“Oh, you want it rough?” Puck laughs, shoving back at Finn. 

“ _What_? Why?!” Finn half yells, now grappling with Puck, trying to use his height to his advantage…and also not knock over the whole computer-speaker-billions of wires setup that Artie has going—

Puck is cracking up now, but he manages to stop laughing for long enough to duck his head and tackle Finn to the ground. Sam calls “Hey!” when one of Finn’s legs kicks out and catches him in the shin. Finn tries to flip them, catching Sam in the shin again—Sam glares, Artie pays them no mind—and they end up rolling over in a tangle of confused limbs, running into the couch hard and sending it skidding a few inches at once, until it stops with a thump when—“Uuuuuuuhhhhhh?” 

Finn and Puck freeze. Sam freezes. Even Artie startles and clicks down the volume on Kurt rimming Blaine like there’s no tomorrow. 

“Guys?” comes Mike’s confused voice. 

There is a moment of heavy silence in which Finn, Puck (who is still crouched on top of Finn), Sam, and Artie exchange a series of wide-eyed looks. Unfortunately, the silence ends quickly—broken by Blaine’s moan, trickling out of the speakers, a moan that starts low and slides higher into an unmistakable needy sex whine. 

“What the hell—are you guys watching porn?” comes Mike’s bleary voice. They all hear him shift, and Finn and Puck scramble to get upright and safely a few feet apart (Finn bites back a ‘no homo,’ remembering Kurt’s face the last time he said it) before Mike stands up. 

“Um,” Artie says. His finger hovers over the mute button. 

“I mean sort of,” Sam finally says, shrugging as Mike stretches and rubs at his eyes. “It’s more like—we finally—we’re just finishing our, um, our squad mission—”

Mike finishes rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Wait, what?” His brain seems to catch up with Sam’s words. 

“Well, so, this—” Artie begins, but Mike is already making his way across the room to peer at the screen. As soon as he gets a look, he draws back and looks away, mouth set in a firm line. 

“That’s Kurt and Blaine,” Mike states, his voice strange and flat. 

“Um, yeah,” Artie says. 

“You’re watching one of our best friends have sex with his boyfriend,” Mike says, making eye contact with each of them in turn. Finn turns pink and drops his eyes to the floor. Sam shifts uncomfortably. 

“Uh, _yeah,_ ” Puck answers. “Figuring them out was like the whole point of this whole thing. That and keeping me from taking out U.S. Bank’s ATM. And we finally succeeded, man!” Another of Blaine’s desperate moans leaks from the speakers, and everybody but Puck goes still.

“Turn that off,” Mike says. “Turn it off right now.” 

“Wh—”

“But I—”

“This is like the one ti—”

“I mean I’ve been saying that this whole—”

“Turn it _off,_ ” Mike repeats. “Artie. Come on.” 

Artie shakes his head. “We worked really hard to set this up,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Puck adds. “I know you were out of it and sick all last week, man, but it’s been tough getting this all figured out. And we’ve been trailing them for fuckin’ _weeks._ ” 

“That doesn’t matter!” Mike hardly ever raises his voice outside dance practice, so even the slight change in volume is startling. “He’s our friend! It’s one thing to follow them around and see if we can catch them at it in public, okay, it’s one thing to tease a little and dig a little—we all do that, god knows you guys have interrupted me and Tina enough times—but this is different.” 

“I really—” Artie starts, but Mike cuts him off.

“This is supposed to be private,” he says fiercely. “We’ve all seen how private they are about their sex life—which apparently exists. How do you think Blaine would feel if he knew we could see him right now?” Everybody except Mike glances at the screen. Blaine is moaning into the crook of his elbow and arching his ass up higher against two of Kurt’s lubed fingers, which are teasing at his rim. 

“He would feel horrible,” Mike finally fills in. Blaine groans again, and this time Mike can make it out: ‘Sir, _sir,_ oh _please,_ ’ Blaine’s pleading. Mike pauses, taken aback, then growls “Turn it _off,_ Artie. _Turn it off._ ” 

Artie doesn’t, and none of the other boys say anything. 

Mike glares at them, then throws up his hands. “Fine,” he snarls, before vaulting the couch to get at his bag. He digs out his cell phone and clicks a few things before holding it up to his ear. Finn and Sam watch him a little anxiously, while Artie and Puck are mostly back to watching the screen. Mike dials a couple more numbers, but nothing seems to happen. 

“All straight to voicemail,” Mike mutters darkly, kicking loosely at the couch. “Ugh.” 

He sends off a few texts to Blaine and Kurt’s phones, mostly just _pick up your phone_ type messages, because how the hell do you explain this? (Certainly not in a text, that’s how.) He dials and redials Blaine’s number about five more times before shoving his phone in his pocket and squaring his shoulders. 

“Finn,” he says. “Give me your car keys.”

“Why, man?” asks Finn, already tossing over the lanyard that had been hanging out of his pocket, the one with all his keys (and a few weird keychains) on it. 

Mike’s mouth presses to a thin line. “Because my mom drove me. And I have somewhere to be.”

*

Kurt’s never managed to get hard again this quickly after coming—at least not during sex—and he resolves to give himself the chance more often. Because this is _incredible._ Blaine is spread out beneath him, face pressed sideways to the bed, ass pushed up high and stretched full of Kurt’s cock. And for once, Kurt can actually watch and appreciate and fuck into Blaine good and hard without feeling like he, Kurt, is two seconds from exploding. 

Kurt grins wickedly, feeling filthy and powerful in the best possible way. He thrusts in hard one more time. Then he stills and flops down over Blaine’s back, reaching to get at Blaine’s hands where they’re curled together under his chest. Blaine takes a moment to catch his breath before craning his neck back to kiss at Kurt’s temple, the only part of Kurt he can reach. Kurt hums happily and tucks his chin over Blaine’s shoulder to get at his mouth. It’s an awkward angle, but it’s worth it to lick the sweat off Blaine’s lips and feel him sigh into Kurt’s mouth. Kurt pecks him a few more times, sweetly—the only bad part about this position is that they can’t kiss while fucking, which is pretty much Kurt’s favorite thing ever except maybe _Wicked_ and holding hands. 

Speaking of hands—Kurt remembers himself, grips Blaine’s hands where he’d captured them under Blaine’s chest, then kneels back up, bringing Blaine’s hands back with him. Blaine whimpers a little at the shift of Kurt’s cock in him, and a little more when Kurt crosses Blaine’s wrists at the small of Blaine’s back, taking Blaine’s hands in his. Blaine’s back is arched at an even more extreme angle now, and he can’t really move much. Kurt is both…ludicrously turned on and concerned that it can’t be too comfortable for Blaine. But then Blaine squeezes his hands and grinds back on him and huffs out a “Sir, please—“ and Kurt stops worrying. Blaine will tell him if he needs to move. 

Which means Kurt can focus on bringing him to the edge. 

And keeping him there. 

“Please what?” he asks, deep and still inside Blaine. 

“Please I—I—” 

“Oh, I know you want it,” Kurt whispers. “I know you want it so badly, so desperately, you can hardly think. You’ve been waiting so very long. Is that right, little one?”

“Please, I—“

Kurt squeezes Blaine’s hands hard in warning, and Blaine quiets. 

“Answer me. Is that right?”

“Yes—yes sir,” Blaine murmurs. 

“Good boy.” Kurt smiles. He extricates one of his hands and traces his fingertips around Blaine’s stretched, lubed rim. Blaine whimpers and clenches hard around his cock; Kurt stops breathing for several seconds trying to keep his hips from lurching into that hot delicious pressure. 

“Now tell me,” he continues when he feels slightly more in control. “Tell me what you want. Tell me how much you want it.” 

“I, sir, I—I—”

“You can’t have it until you say it,” Kurt warns. 

Blaine huffs out a needy breath and presses his lips together. Then he whispers, “Please, sir, please, I want it. I want it—so badly, I—” his hole twitching a little around Kurt’s cock, his face blushing madly. 

Kurt leans down to kiss at the dark bruise he’d left on Blaine’s shoulder. “Good boy. Now tell me what it is you want.” 

Blaine keens, clenching down around Kurt’s cock again; Kurt can feel him trembling. 

“Sir—”

Kurt smacks a hand down on Blaine’s ass; Blaine moans and tries to push back on him, but there’s no further to go. Kurt is in him to the root. “Tell me,” Kurt growls. 

“I—sir _please_ —”

Kurt spanks him again, harder this time. He can feel the vibrations in his cock and just— _fuck._ “Tell me. Now. Or I’m taking my cock out of that needy little hole. Maybe I’ll take that mouth again. Maybe I won’t even touch you, just come on that pretty face. But you will not come.” One more spank; Blaine breathes out hard, hips jerking. “Tell me.” 

“Sir, I—I want it so much I want it please I want it all the time I—I want your cock please don’t take it away I need it in me I need it fucking me oh please sir fuck me—just fuck me—”

Kurt exhales hard, his entire body flushing hot. _Yes. Fuck._ “Such a good boy,” he breathes, grinding into Blaine. “Such a needy boy. Are you a needy boy?” 

“Y-yes sir—”

Kurt pulls back so only the tip of his cock rests in Blaine, pauses just long enough that Blaine can really feel the emptiness, just long enough that he himself feels slightly crazy with the way Blaine’s hole is open and slick and begging before him. Then he pushes back in, hard. Blaine groans, his eyes rolling back in his head, his hands squeezing Kurt’s hard. 

“You like that?” Kurt gasps, fucking back in again. 

“Oh yes sir—oh—”

“Tell me,” he whispers, fucking shallower now, not hard enough, teasing. 

“Sir, please, please I need your cock, I—” Blaine moans, circling his hips. 

“You have my cock,” Kurt answers, allowing himself one hard thrust in before he goes back to shallow little lurches. “Tell me how you want it.” 

“I want it—I—I want it hard—hard deep sir please I need it please just—fuck me—fill me—fill me up I need—oh please just use me—”

Kurt pets down the whole marked up length of Blaine’s curved spine, and Blaine goes limp beneath him. “Very, very good boy,” he whispers. 

From there on out it’s hard and deep and rough. Blaine’s pleas dissolve into whine after whine punched out of him by Kurt’s thrusts until finally they’re both sweating and panting and Blaine is begging continuously, his mouth run away with him, “oh please let me come oh please please sir I’ve waited sir _please_ —”

Kurt, breathing hard, catches Blaine around the stomach and pulls him up and back until Kurt is sitting up, leaning back on his arms, Blaine in his lap, stuck on his cock, laying flush against Kurt’s chest, his head tipped back over Kurt’s shoulder displaying his marked-up throat. Kurt shifts, frees up an arm, and secures his hand around the base of Blaine’s throat, not squeezing so much as holding him firmly there.

“Ride me,” Kurt murmurs into Blaine’s ear. Blaine moans low and flushes, but he’s too far gone, too desperate for it, to stop. He sits up a little, leaning his throat into Kurt’s hand; he gets his bearings, starts squirming and rocking on Kurt’s cock, breath coming in shallow little pants. 

Kurt spreads his knees a little wider to keep his balance before sitting up a bit more, freeing his other arm. 

He doesn’t give Blaine any warning, just takes Blaine’s cock in hand. 

Blaine yelps, gasps, thrusts forward hard into the pressure on his cock and then back even harder to get Kurt’s cock deep in him again. “Let me come—have to—” he begs, trembling, trying to still himself but failing, writhing in Kurt’s lap. 

“Almost there, needy boy,” Kurt says, fighting to keep his voice even, stroking Blaine’s cock once, slow but hard. 

“Oh—oh I can’t—”

“You will,” Kurt breathes. He yanks Blaine back by the throat; Blaine collapses bonelessly on him, his head limp over Kurt’s shoulder, his hips still jerking uncontrollably in Kurt’s lap. Kurt’s thighs burn trying to keep them upright, but he hardly notices; he bites down where Blaine’s neck and shoulder meet on impulse and starts to move his hand again, gripping hard, first slow, then faster. 

“Please— _please_ —” Blaine pleads. 

“You beg so well,” Kurt says, his lips brushing the new bite. Then his teeth latch right back in. 

He gives Blaine thirty more seconds of torment, which Blaine bears beautifully, body twitching toward wherever Kurt touches him, regardless of whether the touch is bringing him pleasure or pain—Blaine’s body seems utterly out of Blaine’s own control, but it responds to Kurt’s every whim, and Kurt revels in it, cock throbbing with every little spasm that runs through Blaine—but he can’t think about that, can’t think about it no no because he’ll come if he does _fuck fuck fuck_. He breathes in deep through his nose and grinds up into Blaine, gives Blaine another, overlapping bite in the thick muscle of his shoulder, trying to get himself under control, but Blaine cries out and begs and the begging is as good as being down Blaine’s fucking throat, fucking hell hearing him beg is as good as fucking him, Kurt swears—

Finally, Kurt draws his mouth back just enough to say:

“Show me. Come.” 

“Thank—” But Blaine can’t even finish his thanks; he gasps hard and arches up, the whole length of his body pulled taut, his legs tense and straining; within seconds his torso is streaked with come, his cock twitching as more of it dribbles out; and Kurt feels Blaine’s hole spasm around his cock—holds his breath trying not to come just yet, wanting to see what he’s done to Blaine, _for_ Blaine, every precious lovely second of it, every tensed muscle and stuttering breath—but finally it’s too much, much too much; Blaine is still gasping for air and twitching around him when Kurt thrusts up twice and comes hard, deep in Blaine, clinging to him, biting into the side of his neck. 

They come down slowly. Blaine is still shuddering through the aftershocks around him when Kurt’s legs can’t take the strain anymore; he shifts, slips out of Blaine. His entire body is one huge satisfied ache, like a pulled muscle just stretched. 

“Lay down with me,” Kurt murmurs. God, he could hold Blaine skin-to-skin for the next year and be satisfied with life, he thinks. He throws several wayward pillows into something resembling order and flops down on his back; Blaine curls up half on top of him, tucking his face beneath Kurt’s chin. 

“Good, sweetheart?” He asks, petting idly down Blaine’s damp, marked-up back. 

“Amazing,” Blaine answers. “You’re amazing.” He props himself up on an elbow and kisses Kurt, and Kurt sighs happily against his lips. _Perfect,_ Kurt thinks. _Everything is perfect._ “I love you so much,” he murmurs, and Blaine nuzzles closer in affirmation. He strokes a hand gently through Blaine’s mussed curls and presses his lips to Blaine’s again and again—Blaine is so sweet like this, so peaceful and content afterwards. Kurt wouldn’t trade his everyday bouncy, talkative Blaine for the world, but there’s something special here too. Something irreplaceable. Kurt smoothes a hand through Blaine’s hair again, kissing him and thinking _thank god for Dad and Carol’s anniversary,_ and he’s not really thanking any God; it’s more that he is overwhelmed with gratitude that this night is happening, _thank god for Finn leaving, thank god for today, thank god for Blaine, oh life can be wonderful can’t it—_

_Knock._

Everything freezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	9. Crash and burn

Kurt and Blaine go absolutely still, lips hovering a centimeter apart. They stop breathing. The only thing still moving, Kurt is convinced, is his jackrabbit heart, racing, racing—oh god oh god _who the fuck is here how long have they been here oh god_ —

After a moment, Blaine breathes “Did we imagine it?” He’s shaking. Kurt rubs his thumb silently down the back of Blaine’s neck, not really daring to hope— 

_Knock, knock, knock._

Kurt feels his face drain of color. Blaine stops breathing atop him. Kurt gently guides Blaine off him and sits up, still petting through Blaine’s hair, his stomach a pit of horror, his mind racing with ever more preposterous possibilities, and over them an unending chorus of _no no no no no no nononononono_ —

“Kurt? Blaine?” The voice comes muffled through the door. 

“Is that—Mike?” Blaine whispers, eyes wide. 

“I think so,” Kurt whispers back. 

“How did he even get in?” Blaine asks.

“More like _why,_ ” Kurt murmurs. “It’s—what, past midnight?” 

“Um, guys, so—I know this is a bad time, but you’re going to want to—to—open the door and talk to me,” Mike says. 

Kurt and Blaine exchange a helpless look. 

“Why didn’t you just call?” Kurt finally says loud enough for Mike to hear.

“Well, I tried,” Mike says. “Multiple times. Look, it’s important, okay? And…urgent.”

“Okay, Mike,” Kurt calls back at length. 

“This better be _really_ important,” Blaine adds, since Mike obviously knows he’s there. 

“It is,” Mike answers. They hear the floorboards creak as he shifts his weight; Kurt wonders how the hell they didn’t notice anybody opening the door or walking up the stairs— _unless Mike has been hovering outside the door all along?!_ —no, that’s ridiculous, Kurt tells himself. And anyway, to be fair, they’d both been very, very focused on one another. He has a vision, a minutes-ago flash of memory, of Blaine sweaty and pliant in his lap, begging. 

God. 

“Just give us a minute,” Kurt says. _More like an hour. Or a day._

“Um. Hurry,” Mike says. (Mike wants to say something more like _you should probably put clothes on as fast as possible, believe me, you’ll thank me later,_ but he thinks that that would be massively unproductive. And it seems like Kurt and Blaine are, you know, finished. God, maybe he should have just waited until morning to tell them? …Unless they were planning on multiple rounds, which, given what Mike knows—a. they have a free night and b. Mike and Tina’s own tendency to have sex marathons whenever possible—seems likely. So he should talk to them now. Right now. _He’s talking to them right now oh god._ It’s already too late to back out, and, just…shit. This is going to go so badly.)

Kurt would normally roll his eyes, but he’s too freaked out. He tells himself: if it was Dad, if it was another heart attack, if it was anything like that, Mike would have already said so. And it wouldn’t be Mike here anyway, it would be Finn or Sam or—seriously anyone else, god, what in the world could _Mike_ have to tell them that’s so urgent? Is Tina pregnant—? No, even that could wait until morning—

Kurt shakes himself out of his own head and hops off the bed; shivering, he makes his way to the dresser and digs out boxer-briefs for himself and Blaine, whose underwear is probably unsalvageable. He chucks the boxers and his Dalton gym kit to Blaine, who pulls it all on quickly. (Some corner of Kurt’s mind is still trying to be Blaine’s dom—aftercare cut short, he still wants his sub comfortable, at ease—and, well, if that’s emotionally impossible at the moment then at least he’ll be in the loosest, softest, most familiar clothing Kurt owns). For himself he tugs on a pair of his looser jeans and a thick, soft hoodie. When he turns around, Blaine is dressed and has stuffed their dirty clothing under the bed and pulled the sheets up a little so that the bed doesn’t look quite so…destroyed. 

“Thank you, sweetie,” Kurt says, kissing him quickly on the cheek and whispering in his ear, “My very good boy.” 

Blaine blinks back tears. “No problem, Kurt,” he says carefully. 

Oh god, Kurt thinks. This is a mess. This is a nightmare

Blaine is still at least a little down, certainly in need of more time with just Kurt; Kurt himself feels completely out of it, spinning, thrown for a loop; the room is vastly messier than it usually is, though perhaps Mike hasn’t been in here often enough to take note; and the whole place undoubtedly smells of sex. 

Well. There’s nothing for it. Kurt exchanges a look with Blaine, who sits atop the bedcovers and nods once, twisting his hands; then, he opens the door.

*

“Oh my god.” Finn tosses his phone aside in defeat—Mike has silenced his phone, he’s not going to answer. He’s not going to be talked out of this. 

“This is bad. This is very bad,” says Artie, staring at the screen in horror. His fingers hover over the keys, unsure if he wants to exit out and save them all from seeing it or leave the streaming video up to help them prepare themselves. 

“Princess is not gonna be happy,” Puck agrees. 

“Understatement of the century,” Sam mutters. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” 

“Finn, bro, chill,” Puck says. “It’s gonna be fine. You guys are brothers, that shit is unbreakable.” 

“Oh my god.” 

Mike is stepping into the room now, sitting down at the bench in front of Kurt’s vanity. 

“This is so bad,” Artie groans. He buries his face in his hands and watches through his fingers. 

Puck straightens up suddenly. “Maybe I should head over there and—”

“No,” says everyone else in the room simultaneously. 

Puck hunches back over, pouting. “Well jeez, all right then, fine. Time to crash and burn.”

*

Kurt shuts the door behind Mike even though he’s sure—well, mostly sure—there’s nobody but them in the house. It gives him half a second to calm himself down, and it reassures him: he is in his own space. He is in control here. It also gives him a moment to arrange his face into a expression that says ‘I did not just have the best and kinkiest sex of my life and you did not just listen to me and Blaine come our brains out.’ 

He turns back around to find both Mike and Blaine watching him. Mike honestly looks even more nervous than Blaine—and seriously, what the fuck is going on—but Blaine is all scrunched up and vulnerable-looking, hugging a pillow on Kurt’s bed. 

And, well, fuck it. Mike is in Kurt’s house, in his _room_ ; he can deal. Kurt’s first priority right now should be Blaine, not Mike’s comfort level. So Kurt takes a seat next to Blaine on the bed and tugs Blaine in to lean on his side. He wraps his arm around Blaine’s waist and strokes his thumb there, invisible to Mike behind Blaine’s arm. Blaine relaxes minutely, letting Kurt bear most of his weight. 

After several seconds of strained silence in which they all stare in different directions, Kurt says flatly “All right, talk.” 

“Um,” Mike starts, but his voice cracks right away. He clears it, then opens and closes his mouth a few times, silently. Oh god he doesn’t know where to look. When he looks at Kurt, he gets a little frightened because Kurt is awesome but also scary. When he looks at Blaine, his eyes are drawn immediately to the dozens of dark hickeys all down his throat and neck, trailing past where the collar to the loose gym shirt hangs down. 

“You just interrupted some of the only alone time we have, you know,” Blaine adds, quiet but dark. “And I really don’t appreciate that.” 

“Yeah—I guess I should apologize for that, first,” Mike starts hesitantly. 

He decides then and there to play a game called Do Not Look At Blaine’s Hickeys Even Once. He meets Blaine’s eyes, trying to make it clear that he’s sincere.

“Apology tentatively accepted,” Kurt says, trying to move things along, though Blaine huffs at his side, frustrated. Blaine’s not quite so quick to forgive, which, Kurt reflects, is probably a good thing. “What’s going on? I assume you didn’t break into my house on a whim.” 

“I have Finn’s key, actually,” Mike explains. 

“Mike.” Kurt fixes him with a stern glare. 

“Okay, okay,” Mike says. “Can I just preface this with one more thing?” They say nothing, so he continues: “I just want to say…I had no idea this was going on. I swear, I’m going to explain what I’m talking about in two seconds. And I admit I was involved at the beginning, because it was all in good fun, I thought, but things escalated and…I had no idea it had gone this far, okay?” 

“Did Puck kill somebody?” Kurt asks, deceptively calm, raising a eyebrow. “Because I draw a line at hiding a body.” 

“ _Kurt_ ,” Blaine chastises him quietly. Kurt shrugs and gives Blaine a wide-eyed ‘I don’t freaking know’ look. 

“N—Kurt, no, nothing like that. Nobody’s dead. And, uh, as long as you guys don’t kill anybody, nobody will be dead,” Mike laughs nervously, obviously trying to break the tension and failing completely. 

“Okay, seriously, out with it,” Blaine demands. He presses harder against Kurt—if Mike weren’t here, Kurt would pull Blaine right into his lap. 

“Okay,” Mike says. “I’m just going to start from the beginning, and go through the whole…. Thing. So, here goes. You know how I asked about your…your sex life, earlier in the year, Blaine?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Blaine says, nonplussed. “Kind of hard to forget that one.” 

“Puck asked me, too,” Kurt recalls. 

“Yeah,” Mike says. “That’s ‘cause it was—see we were doing this thing where—I’m already getting ahead of myself,” he shakes his head, disgruntled. “I don’t really know where to…. Okay, I’ll just—Kurt, so earlier in the year, we’d all be talking about sex or whatever, and the guys would all give me crap for all the hickeys Tina gives me, and Puck would brag about having a threesome or whatever. But Blaine never said anything.” 

“Purposely,” Blaine interjects. 

“Yeah, I get that _now_ ,” Mike says quickly. But it’s so full of implication that Kurt tenses up. 

“How long were you standing outside my door, Mike?” he asks. At this point, he might as well be direct.

“Just like a few seconds, Kurt, I promise, I knocked as soon as I got here—I wasn’t—look, just let me explain.” 

“Okay,” Kurt says slowly, eyebrow raised. “Go on, then.” 

“So, Blaine never said anything, about sex I mean,” Mike repeats. “And, well, it got—we got—curious, I guess. Because he never said…. And then Puck just…fixated on it.” 

“Puck fixated on my sex life,” Blaine repeats blankly. 

“Um, yeah. I mean it sounds weird when you say it like that. And—god—it really is weird. But, Puck was saying he was going to like rob an ATM if he didn’t come up with something else to do, cause he was so bored, and that was what he came up with…. And then, for the rest of us, and I know for me, it was really coming from a place of caring about you, Blaine. And wanting to make sure you were happy.” 

“Where are you going with this?” Kurt says apprehensively. 

“So, well, we started trying to figure out if you guys were like…doing anything.”

“That explains so much,” Kurt mutters. 

“Yeah, I wondered why Puck kept asking if I was getting enough vitamin D,” Blaine says. 

“But wait, I’m still confused,” Kurt says. “So Puck was obsessed enough to just walk up and ask me about our sex life, and you did the same with Blaine, and Puck apparently made really terrible dick jokes. I don’t understand why any of this necessitates you breaking into my house at midnight, Mike. Not exactly urgent.” 

“Well, that’s not really all that happened,” Mike continues hesitantly. 

“What.” Blaine’s mind is suddenly racing with possibilities. His ‘bros’ are ridiculous and weirdly resourceful. With Puck among them—well, anything could happen. 

“We started sort of…spying. At first it was just at school, but you guys hardly touch at school at all—”

“Again, purposely,” Blaine points out, teeth gritted. 

“Yeah,” Mike nods, “I think Sam was the one who pointed out that the school’s so homophobic that you probably couldn’t just act like me and Tina. So then, when spying at school didn’t give us anything, um—well, we followed you around in cars once or twice—”

“ _What_?!” Blaine barks, but Mike ploughs on. 

“—and Finn and Sam started—started spying on you guys at home. Or, well, trying to.” 

“I can’t believe I didn’t figure that out,” Kurt sighs. “Seriously, that explains so much. Do you know how many stupid questions those two have asked in the last couple months? And I’m not talking normal levels of incompetence, not even for Finn. I’m talking, ‘Kurt, help, where’s the refrigerator?’” 

But Blaine isn’t nearly so resigned. “This is ridiculous, Mike,” he begins, frustrated. “I mean—you’ve been there this whole semester. I think I made it pretty clear that I didn’t want to talk about this with you guys. All the spying, it’s just—it’s not something real friends do,” Blaine trails off. 

“Yeah,” Mike says awkwardly, looking down. “Yeah, I know, I started worrying about that, too, once it got that far. I mean, I was in it just to…look out for you and maybe tease you a little, you know? Not hurt you. The same way we all do with each other. All in good fun. But then it just…exploded in my face.” 

“I’m not going to blame you for everybody being assholes, Mike,” Blaine sighs, though he’s clenching his hands together hard. “Give me some time with a punching bag and then we can talk,” he adds begrudgingly. 

“Well,” Mike says carefully. “The thing is—there’s more.” 

“How could there possibly be more?” Kurt says, aghast. “This is already completely ridiculous.” 

Blaine’s stomach sinks. He already wants to punch out all his former bros, and also curl up in a tiny ball in a corner and never look at anyone again, except maybe Kurt. “How bad are we talking, Mike?” he asks quietly.

“Um, pretty bad,” Mike manages. “I’m sure you guys noticed that I was completely down and out with the flu for the past two weeks or so.” Kurt and Blaine nod. “I haven’t been awake for more than like twenty minutes at a time until today, unless I was vomiting or being force-fed toast and Gatorade,” Mike clarifies. 

“Okay, disgusting,” Kurt says. 

“I’m just trying to make it clear that I was not involved in this, and I would have absolutely put a stop to it had I known it was happening,” Mike says, trying to keep his voice even. 

“You’re making me nervous,” Kurt says.

“Whatever it is, just say it,” Blaine agrees. He closes his eyes and tucks his face against Kurt’s neck. He doesn’t care if Mike sees, anymore. He just needs Kurt. 

“Apparently…while I was out…they decided to plant cameras,” Mike says quietly. 

Blaine feels his blood run cold. Mike watches Kurt’s entire body tense. 

“Did they go through with it?” Kurt asks through numb lips, numb mind. 

“Yes,” Mike answers. 

“Where?” Kurt chokes. “ _Here_?”

“Yeah, I think just this room,” Mike says. 

“Oh my god,” Kurt croaks, straightening up. “Where are—I’m going to _burn them_ , I don’t care if they’re thousands of dollars—”

Blaine’s head is still buried in Kurt’s neck, though he seems to have stopped breathing. “Thank you telling us, Mike. That—well. It could have been really bad.” 

Mike realizes then that they’ve talked right past one another—Kurt and Blaine still don’t realize what’s happened. They’re thinking cameras the way most people think of them—something recorded and saved, played back later, evidence easily destroyed, all records lost. 

Which is really, really not what’s going on. 

“Blaine,” he starts, but then it feels like all the air in the room is gone and he chokes a little bit. 

Blaine raises his head from Kurt’s neck. His eyes are red-rimmed; his arms come up to fold around himself. “What?” he grits out. 

“I don’t think you understand,” Mike gets out. He tries to find words. “They didn’t record it. It was—it was a livestream.” 

The couple on the bed go absolutely still. 

What follows is the longest, heaviest silence Mike has ever felt. What must be all of three seconds seems to stretch for days. 

“I’m sorry, I’m gonna be sick,” Blaine finally whispers. He slips off the bed and stumbles to Kurt’s en suite bathroom, falls to his knees in front of the toilet bowl, and retches. Nothing comes up. 

Moments later, footsteps, then a clammy hand stroking up and down his back through the soft cotton of the borrowed gym shirt. “Shhh, love,” Kurt breathes behind him. “Shhhh, you’re okay, you’re okay.” Blaine retches again. The hand continues up and down his back, up and down, up and down. Blaine rests his head on the cool toilet seat and viciously pushes everything but that hand out of his mind. 

_No. No. Impossible. No. Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it—_

Another set of footsteps approach, hover in the doorway. 

“I found one,” Mike’s voice comes, gentle. “I turned it off.” 

“There was more than one?” comes Kurt’s quiet voice—even, but _too_ even, deadly. He’s crying, but he’s doing a good job hiding it from Blaine, tears slipping down his cheeks and disappearing beneath his hoodie silently. His hand continues steadily, up and down, up and down. When his hand passes over the bites he left down Blaine’s spine, they throb, which would normally make Blaine desperately horny—but now all Blaine feels is nauseous and achy. And very, very cold. He wants to lean back into Kurt’s hand, his warmth, but he needs to be…very near the toilet, oh god he is so nauseous—

“I think three,” Mike answers as Blaine retches again.

“Oh my god,” Kurt breathes. “Oh my _god_. Who—?”

“Puck, Sam, Artie, and Finn,” Mike answers. Kurt is as pale as the toilet bowl. 

“Finn?” he whispers, and Blaine summons what little energy he has to take Kurt’s shaky free hand in his. 

Shit. Puck, Blaine could see being this stupid pretty easily, especially about anything sex-related. But Finn is part of Kurt’s family, one of the few people Kurt can really trust—well, could trust. Blaine rests his forehead back on the toilet bowl, his stomach still feeling squirmy and acidic in his gut. This is…oh god this is such a mess—what they must have seen—what they’ll say, who they’ll tell—fuck, who will they _tell_ —oh god _don’t think about it don’t think_ —his eyes are squeezed shut.

“I—I woke up,” Mike is saying from somewhere far off, “I had fallen asleep before anything, they were just playing video games, but I woke up and—and I—glimpsed—heard—but as soon as I realized, I looked away. I tried to get them to turn it off, and then I was calling you guys like a million times, and when you didn’t answer I came over as fast as I could, I thought maybe I could keep it from going any further, but.” 

Blaine moans softly against the toilet bowl, then retches again, body curling in hard, going cold with sweat. Kurt shoots Mike a quick, indecipherable look and, when Blaine relaxes a little, he cradles Blaine with his body, wrapping himself around Blaine so his folded legs bracket Blaine’s closely, his chest pressing close to Blaine’s back. His arms wrap around Blaine’s chest; he squeezes in tight with his whole body. Blaine shivers, then goes lax, head hanging limply down. “That’s right,” Kurt whispers as Blaine whimpers; he is hyperaware of Mike, who’s still standing in the doorway, watching them. “That’s right, _good_ —let it out, love.” 

“Kurt,” Blaine whispers, aching, his words little more than breath. “Why would they—”

“I don’t know—I don’t know—” he squeezes Blaine harder. 

What can he do? His shivering, scared sub (boyfriend best friend love of his life) in his arms, and he’s _helpless_. 

If there’s one way Kurt hates feeling, it’s helpless. He can take sad. He can take angry. He can take hurt. He can take bruises and dumpster tosses and slushies and a thousand increasingly uncreative slurs. But this sick empty sinking feeling—?

“I’m gonna go look for the other cameras,” Mike finally says, backing up. Kurt tucks his face into Blaine’s messy hair.

*

“Oh, no. Oh no.”

“Finn. Just shut up.” Sam finally collapses with a giant exhale onto the couch, and Finn joins him much more gingerly and puts his face in his hands. Even Artie is slumped in his chair, watching as the last camera goes dark. 

“Shit,” he mutters. 

Puck is the only one left standing, and he’s pacing back and forth like a big mangy caged cat. Or possibly an angry bear. “I thought they’d just be a little embarrassed,” he says to the room at large. “I mean, shit, most people get walked in on, most of us have been walked in on, I—” he cuts himself off with a growl. No one really knows what to say. 

“I sorta thought kinky people were, like, _into_ being watched?” Sam finally asks quietly. “My friend Jenny from the club was totally into that.” 

No one answers, though Puck definitely makes a mental note to ask for Jenny’s number later. 

“Do you think Kurt will actually burn the cameras?” Artie asks a while later, with a small voice. 

“Probably,” Finn answers, empty. 

“This was a stupid idea,” Sam mumbles. “Fuck.”

*

Blaine does finally manage to pull himself together a while later, at least enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s going to vomit any second. He accepts Kurt’s help from the toilet to the sink, where he washes out his mouth and washes his face and then just lets the hot water run over and over his hands, eyes closed, bent over the sink as though in prayer. Kurt takes all this as his cue to try to pull himself together as well, but now that he’s standing up and not taking care of Blaine, he’s having a hard time keeping his hands and jaw from trembling. It’s all coming back to the forefront of his head, making his heartbeat skyrocket, his limbs progressively shakier. 

_What are we going to_ do _? What are_ they _going to do?_

He tries to think about Blaine instead, worry about him. Blaine’s hands are getting pink under the running water. Kurt clutches his own twitching hands together and tenses his weakening legs and arms and clenches his teeth. His knees still feel like they’re about to give out on him. His eyes flicker between Blaine’s reddening hands and the soft curl of his hair, loose behind the ears where Kurt had pulled at it.

Finally, Blaine straightens and opens his eyes, turns off the water, dries his red hands. He takes a deep, uneven breath, and turns to face Kurt. The moment Blaine sees him—tense and shaky, leaning on the wall for support, every muscle locked up hard—he feels his heart cry out, another wave of pain atop what’s already turning his gut. Blaine goes to him, clings to him, hugs him hard, shuddering and crying into the shoulder of his hoodie. Kurt holds him, too, and Blaine can feel it every time the muscles in Kurt’s arms or chest or belly jump and shudder. He rubs his warm hands up and down Kurt’s back until their breathing evens out. Slowly, Kurt’s shaking dies down too, though Blaine is still catching tremors where Kurt’s hands have locked around his back. 

“Are you okay?” Kurt whispers, and Blaine looks at him. 

Here is Blaine’s beautiful, intelligent, incredibly gifted boyfriend, the person Blaine most loves and respects in the entire world, standing before him like he’s had his insides torn out and put on display. Like a butterfly stuck to a board with a thumbtack by some cruel, curious boys.

Blaine feels a rush of clean, sharp anger. The lingering nausea flees. “They can’t touch us, or what we have,” Blaine answers fiercely. 

Kurt looks at him for a moment, and there’s something in his face that shifts from defeat to…is it hope? Love? Trust? It flickers there and then it’s gone; Kurt yanks Blaine back against his body. 

“I love you,” he whispers just as fiercely. “I love you so much.” One last squeeze, an even briefer kiss, then, “Okay, let’s go. You and I need fluids. And food.” His voice softens and he adds, “Blaine, I don’t care about the rest of the world, I’m still taking care of you.”

Blaine feels the remaining tension drain out of him, just for a moment, a precious few seconds of relief. He kisses the nearest bit of Kurt’s skin, the side of his throat, sweetly. Somehow it doesn’t seem like enough for what Kurt has just given him—he wants to explain how deeply cared for Kurt makes him feel, how protected, how loved and treasured and kept, and how deeply he wants to honor and serve and love Kurt in return, but it seems impossible, he doesn’t know how to put it into words; his brain, sluggish with remnants of subspace and overwhelmed by both betrayal and love, refuses to translate. 

Instead he steps back a bit, dropping his eyes; he takes up Kurt’s hands and bows his head to kiss the center of each of Kurt’s palms reverently. His eyes flicker up to meet Kurt’s, and although he can’t manage words, he knows that Kurt understands. 

They take one slow minute to breathe. 

They find Mike sitting at the vanity again with the three small cameras piled together on the bed. Kurt scoops them up, tucking them into the pouch of his hoodie wordlessly, before leading Blaine by the hand out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Mike trails after them, cautious. 

Kurt is pouring himself and Blaine huge glasses of juice when Mike joins them in the kitchen, and for a moment (when Kurt looks up and his eyes are hard and angry) Mike thinks that Kurt is just going to throw a glass at him, or punch him, or something. Or hell, maybe Blaine will—he’s seen what Blaine can do to a bag—but Kurt just sighs and pulls out a third glass, filling it with juice as well. 

“You might as well join us,” Kurt says. “It’s not like we have anything resembling privacy anymore, so I guess we shouldn’t even try.” 

Mike winces, but takes the juice, hoping it’s a sign of goodwill. He joins them at the table. Kurt is monitoring Blaine carefully, not speaking, so Mike tries to just be still and invisible. A few minutes later, Kurt produces a plate of cheese and crackers from the refrigerator. He hands one to Blaine and takes one for himself as well—he glances at Mike, but Mike waves him off. Mike wasn’t the one having vigorous sex, after all. While eating his crackers, Blaine keeps inching himself further and further to the side of his chair to get closer to Kurt, and finally Kurt shoots Mike a warning look before pushing their chairs together and tucking Blaine against his side. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, and Blaine grins a little, slowly. 

The silence broken, Mike knows he has something he has to say—maybe this is the time. He clears his throat awkwardly, then pauses, unsure—and both Kurt and Blaine stiffen and look up, taken aback. Kurt’s glaring hard, Blaine looks embarrassed—Mike realizes that they both took that sound as a sign of disapproval at them, well, touching. “No--!” He starts. “That’s—not what I meant. I was just going to say something but my throat was all clogged up and—”

Kurt sighs and tugs Blaine back in. “Good,” he drawls. “Because if you were homophobic to my face, in my house, just minutes after your friends violated us in about the most disturbing, invasive way I can think of, I would probably never talk to you again.” 

_Right,_ Mike thinks. _Tread carefully. Tread even more carefully than you were treading._

Luckily, Blaine gives him an in. “What were you going to say, Mike?” he murmurs. 

“I just—wanted to make it clear that I don’t, you know, judge you, or think of you any differently now than before,” Mike answers quietly. “I mean, I didn’t see or hear much, I was trying to avoid that—but I did, you know, see a little—and I don’t think you should be…ashamed, or anything. Because I think you guys are great. I just want you to know that.” 

“…What exactly _did_ you see?” Kurt asks dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure that—”

“Kurt,” Blaine warns quietly.

“He’s going to hear it all from the rest of them anyway,” Kurt sighs, defeated. But he doesn’t say anything more. 

“Um, if you’re talking about the whole, you know, BDSM thing?” Mike says. “I sort of—caught on. Pretty quick. Because Tina and I…I mean, not the same, but…. Let’s just say I really can’t judge.”

Kurt and Blaine have frozen again.

“And I’m really sorry about all of this,” Mike remembers to add. 

Blaine slowly resumes chewing his cracker, peeking a glance at Kurt from under his eyelashes. 

“You and Tina, huh,” Kurt murmurs, considering. “…I can see it.” He nods once, sharply, and declares “All right, no more about that right now, I’ve hit the maximum level of humiliation I can take for the moment. I have to save some my daily quota for talking to the morons who thought this was a good idea.” 

Blaine looks up, startled. “You want to talk to them? Tonight?” 

“I admit that ‘talking to’ might be misleadingly mild wording, but yes, I was planning on it,” Kurt replies. Blaine looks down at his knees, mouth twisting a little. Kurt pets through the back of his hair, and continues, “I want them to know now that this was unacceptable as our friends and as human beings. I want them to know now that I expect this to be kept in confidence, and not brought up or used against either of us. I want them to understand exactly how angry I am.” 

Kurt nudges Blaine’s chin up so that their eyes meet. Mike averts his eyes. Their intimacy is stunning, as present and essential as the air around them. Mike has tried not to notice it (since he figures they don’t want it noticed), but it’s inescapable. He and Tina have moments like this, where they both know they’re totally connected, totally in sync—but only once in a while. While Mike always cherishes them, they’re just _moments_ , rare and precious and brief. Kurt and Blaine seem to maintain that intimacy, that connection, despite themselves, and despite their own efforts to hide. 

At the other end of the table, Kurt is saying quietly “But sweetheart, if you need me now, or if you want to talk everything through beforehand, or if you want to deal with this later, then just tell me.” 

“You and I should talk a little beforehand,” Blaine sighs. “But not for long. I’m exhausted. But I can’t sleep without, well, at least some sort of guarantee that it’s not all posted on the internet somewhere.” 

“I don’t think they would do that,” Mike offers, feeling like an intruder. 

“We didn’t think they would do anything like this,” Kurt sighs with a vague, all-encompassing wave of his hand. “So at this point I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“If they did, I would honestly press charges,” Blaine says darkly. “I just….” 

Kurt squeezes Blaine in tighter, face crumpling. “All right, let’s talk,” he decides, standing. “Blaine, bring your food. Mike, stay here.”

*

“What are we going to do?” Finn murmurs after several minutes of silence. Nobody has laid down or even mentioned calling it a night, despite the fact that it’s about half past two a.m. 

There’s a long, heavy pause. 

“Just wait,” Sam finally says. “Wait and see. And keep your phones on. They might call, I guess.” 

“You might not want to go home tomorrow,” Artie adds quietly, looking at Sam and Finn. “You can stay here, my mom won’t mind.” 

“Maybe they’ll be too embarrassed to say anything,” Sam says hopefully. “And it’ll just be awkward for a while.” 

“Pause. How well do you know Kurt and Blaine?” Artie asks, arching an eyebrow. But then he seems to remember himself and deflates again. 

“Man, I’d rather just get it over with,” Puck says from where he’s leaning in the corner of the room. He’s been flipping an old lighter open and shut, but it’s out of fluid, no light to it. “One and done. Fight and get it out of our systems. Go back to normal. Shit, man.” He flicks the lighter open again but doesn’t close it, just stares. “Don’t get it. Didn’t mean to hurt ‘em,” he mutters. 

“Yeah, me either,” Sam says. “But we did.”

*

Up in his room, Kurt and Blaine sit crosslegged on the bed, knees touching, foreheads touching, hands tangled together in their laps. Blaine closes his eyes. Kurt watches his own fingers trace soothing circles into Blaine’s palms. Kurt never bothered to turn the lights back on, and the darkness cradles them, warm and heavy. 

It’s a strange, disjointed conversation. It’s been a strange, disjointed night.

“I don’t even know what to say to them,” Blaine whispers into the secret dark. “I don’t know how to explain it…. And how could I even look them in the eye, after this?”

“We don’t have to explain, little one. We don’t owe them anything. I’m thinking more threats, to be honest—you heard that.” A pause. “Please—” Kurt’s voice falters. “Blaine, you’re not ashamed, are you?”

Blaine curls into himself, closing his fists around Kurt’s smooth cool hands. 

“Please don’t be ashamed. Not of this, sweetling.” Kurt kisses Blaine’s forehead, and eases his hands back open. “I’m embarrassed. Very embarrassed. And… _furious_ , and sickened, and betrayed…. I’m not going to tell you not to be any of those things. But don’t be ashamed, love. You were so beautiful. You are so beautiful like that.” 

“That’s—” Blaine chokes a little, and blinks up at Kurt for a moment before squeezing his eyes shut again. “That’s—I know it’s not easy for you to say, but—Kurt, it’s different for you. You were…obviously the dom. And—and you topped tonight. They saw me—begging a-and incoherent and desperate and messed up and stupid and weak—”

“You’re not weak. You weren’t weak tonight,” Kurt says fiercely. He tugs Blaine gently back by the neck to look him in the eye and keeps his hand there, stroking soothingly at Blaine’s hairline. “Being a sub—or on the bottom, for that matter—doesn’t mean you’re weak, love. You being my sub just means you’re self-aware, Blaine. It means you’re courageous enough to ask for what you want.” 

“I know I know I know,” Blaine answers all at once, breath hitching. “I _know_ that, but—I keep seeing it in my head how they would have seen it and—I mean—a bunch of straight guys watching their _bro_ take it up the ass, even without all the—other stuff, I just—”

“Love, we can’t think about it that way, we’ll go crazy,” Kurt insists. His hand twitches on the back of Blaine’s neck. 

“I—Kurt, I can’t stop—”

Kurt deflates. Honestly, he can’t stop thinking about it either, much as he’s trying to. “Blaine, god, they saw me naked,” Kurt whispers, abashed that _this_ is what he’s fixating on, of all the things they saw. “I—just—you know how I am about my layers—and my—my body—”

“Kurt, love, I don’t think they’re going to be thinking about that,” Blaine says in a soothing tone. He squeezes Kurt’s hand in his. “I mean, they saw me choking on your dick.”

“They saw me _getting off on_ choking you with my dick.”

“Well, they saw me tied up and helpless.”

“They saw me tying you up.”

“They saw me come with your dick in me.”

“They saw me come _twice_.”

“They heard me begging for cock for about two straight hours, Kurt.” 

“They also saw me basically fellating your feet.” 

“Oh stop, you did not _fellate_ my feet,” Blaine responds, laughing. It’s slightly manic laughter, true, but it’s such a release that Blaine doesn’t even care. 

Kurt raises an eyebrow, but Blaine just laughs harder, unable to stop. 

“I don’t know what else you’d call it, honey,” Kurt says. He might crack a grin. Just a little. 

“‘Worship,’ maybe,” Blaine giggles, a teasing glint in his eyes and in the tilt of his head. 

“Worship, huh?” And Kurt might be giggling too. It’s a quiet giggle. He’s still managing to talk through it. Mostly. “Isn’t that what you should be doing for me, little one?” He pulls Blaine’s head back by the neck, and Blaine gasps, moving easily with it, going limp in Kurt’s arms when Kurt stills. 

“Yes, Kurt,” Blaine answers. He’s still smiling, silly little thing. 

Kurt kneels up over him and kisses him sweet and deep and long. He keeps one hand firm on the back of Blaine’s head, holding him there. The other hand strokes slowly over Blaine’s forehead and cheeks and along his jaw. Finally, he draws back, panting a little and enjoying the dazed expression on Blaine’s upturned face. 

“I love you. So much,” Kurt says. He sits down and releases Blaine, too. They settle back in, crosslegged. 

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters here. That we love one another,” Kurt continues. “That and making sure no one else ever sees that they did.”

“I want to talk to them first, tonight,” Blaine says quietly. “And then…you can threaten them to hell and back. You have my blessing. And then…we can come back here? Is that okay?” 

“Of course, Blaine.” Kurt can’t imagine sleeping without Blaine tonight. 

“I just need you to hold me tonight, after this,” Blaine breathes. “Please?”

“Of course,” Kurt answers, squeezing Blaine’s hands. “Of course.”

*

By the time Kurt and Blaine return from Kurt’s room, Mike has washed and dried the glasses they used for juice and returned all the food that Blaine didn’t take with him to the fridge. Mike might not know what to do when he has to tell his friends that their other friends just watched them having hours’ worth of kinky sex without their consent, but he does know how to be a polite houseguest. 

And he wants to feel useful and good and nice at least once tonight. 

When Kurt returns, he raises an eyebrow at Mike—Mike takes it to mean _you don’t think that’ll make up for all this, do you?_ —when he sees that everything is cleared away. Mike just shrugs helplessly. He’s doing his best. It’s all he can do. 

Blaine comes up behind Kurt—and that’s when Mike notices that they’ve both changed. Kurt’s in astonishingly tight black pants with a thick leather belt and tall, scary black boots, along with the same hoodie he was in before; Blaine’s in jeans and a soft-looking long-sleeved shirt that must be his own, paired with a checkered scarf that’s probably Kurt’s. 

Because, Mike remembers, Blaine’s entire neck is literally covered in hickeys and bite marks. He can see several peeking out over top of the scarf, actually. He contains a shudder—the good kind. Fuck, he and Tina need to scene soon. 

“Shall we go?” Kurt asks. 

“Sure,” Mike says. He sort of wishes he had the option of just staying here and skipping the whole confrontation, honestly, but that would probably be weird and creepy, and there has been too much weird and creepy stuff happening tonight already. 

The ride is short and tense. Mike drives, and Kurt and Blaine both sit in the back. Mike hears them whispering to one another over the white noise of the wind outside, but he doesn’t try to make out what they’re saying. What will happen will happen. He realizes that he feels exhausted again after only a few hours awake, and honestly he feels a little sick again, too. And sad. And angry. God, what a mess. 

Kurt and Blaine aren’t doing much better in the backseat. Even the wake of their laughter up in Kurt’s bedroom, actually driving to Artie’s place is bringing the reality of the situation back to them. Sad and angry isn’t the half of it—more like enraged, betrayed, shocked—grieving, even: in Kurt’s case, for the trust he thought he’d built with Finn especially, and in Blaine’s case, for the friendship he’d had with the rest of the boys. 

Kurt can’t make sense of it. The (stupid, cruel) decisions that have led them all here. 

Then again, they don’t have to make sense of it. Not tonight. Tonight, they just have do their best and live through it. 

And then, Kurt decides, they’ll go home and take a bath together and Kurt will wrap Blaine up in about five huge fluffy towels and put him in his bed and then he’ll make them hot decaffeinated tea and bring it to bed, and they’ll be warm and alone and safe—god, will they ever really be warm and alone and safe again?—and they’ll kiss for as long as they want and fall asleep all tangled together and they won’t stop touching ever and they won’t leave the bed again until an hour before Kurt’s dad and Carole get home. 

Kurt just doesn’t care anymore that they should go out and do things or see other people this weekend—all he wants is to keep them safe, to keep Blaine safe. 

But that fantasy is for later, Kurt reminds himself as they jolt over the curb and up the drive to Artie’s house. 

Out of the car, Blaine’s hand in his, up the ramp to the front door. The night is quiet and still, not a single light on down the whole street. Mike tosses Kurt the car keys and then hovers behind them. 

Blaine squeezes Kurt’s hand, and Kurt squeezes back.

They only need to hold themselves together for…maybe an hour, tops.

They can do this. Together, Kurt tells himself, they can do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	10. We are not for you

Finn’s phone goes off with a text. He picks it up immediately but takes a deep breath before unlocking it to see—

From: Kurt  
3:12 a.m.  
Come to the door. 

“Guys, I think Kurt’s here, so uh”—swallow—“so I’m gonna go let him in,” Finn chokes out. _Keep it cool. Keep it cool._

Puck exhales loudly and shoves his worthless lighter in his pocket. “Fuck.” 

“Go on,” Artie says quietly, and Finn goes. 

He half expects Kurt to storm in yelling, but Kurt brushes past him, Blaine in tow, without a word or even a glance. Mike emerges through the doorway as well, and after a moment claps Finn on the shoulder. 

“This is gonna be bad, isn’t it?” Finn asks. 

“Did you guys keep watching while I talked to them?” Mike asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Finn answers. 

“Then you know how bad it’s gonna be,” Mike says, following Kurt and Blaine down. 

In the basement, Kurt and Blaine have claimed the couch that was empty, and Mike goes to slouch on its arm. Finn hovers at the foot of the steps. Sam is slumped on the couch opposite Kurt and Blaine. Artie is still in his chair near the computer, and Puck is leaning against the wall. All of them are shifting uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact.

“Get in here, Finn,” comes Kurt’s even voice. It’s the first time he’s spoken. There’s a sense that the whole room has just taken one huge breath together. Finn collapses next to Sam on the couch. 

Kurt and Blaine leave them in silence for a few moments, looking them over. Finn, unable to look them in the eye, stares at their knees instead and notices that they’re holding hands, fingers linked and resting on Kurt’s leg. And after weeks of spying, Finn knows that’s unheard of. 

…On the other hand, everyone in the room just watched them have dirty, drawn-out sex. 

Maybe handholding just doesn’t register to them anymore. 

Finally, Kurt speaks. “I’m not going to ask what you were thinking,” he says. “Because it’s obvious you weren’t.” 

His voice is even and cold. He looks at each of them in turn. He is utterly possessed of himself. (Artie wishes for half a moment that he could film him now, icy and commanding, like a divine king with his consort.) 

“I—” Puck starts. 

“Shut up,” Blaine says quietly, and the temperature seems to drop by about twenty degrees. 

Puck pauses with his mouth open, then exhales hard and looks down, his mouth clicking shut. 

“We came here in the middle of the night to make a few things clear right away,” Blaine begins. “And we expect you to pay attention.” His voice is shaking, but he’s speaking at a regular volume and pace. Finn notices that his knuckles are white between Kurt’s. 

“But first,” Blaine continues, “I have a few things to get off my chest. Artie. Sam. Finn. Puck.” He looks at them in turn, but no one can keep eye contact. Artie’s cheeks burn. “I thought you were my friends. I really did. I talked with you guys and spent time with you and cared about you and joked with you and sang with you. I tried so hard this year to find my place. And I really thought I found it with you. The fact that you guys did this—the fact that you’ve been doing it for months…. It blows my mind. It’s ridiculous. It was so unnecessary. It was cruel. And it hurts.” 

A pause; Blaine seems to gather his thoughts. “I don’t actually want to talk about this at all,” he says, deceptively calm. “But I do want you to understand how massive a violation what you did tonight is. I don’t know if that’s possible, because I can tell from our conversations that none of you really think of sex the way that we do—except maybe you, Finn.” He pauses again; everyone in the room is looking at their feet, except Kurt, who is looking at him. 

“Sex for us really means something,” Blaine says. “So it’s not that I can’t talk about sex. I can talk about sex just fine. That’s not the problem. The thing is that I didn’t want to talk to _you_ about sex. I didn’t want to share any of this _with you_. Because…this isn’t _for_ you. This isn’t _about_ you.” The other boys just look tense and confused. Blaine takes a deep breath. “Guys like you have humiliated me, have humiliated Kurt, have hurt us and scarred us and shamed us and beat us and forced us to change schools and put me in the hospital. And not even just guys similar to you—some of _you_ , literally, have thrown slushies on Kurt and tossed him into dumpsters. He may have forgiven you for all that, but it’s not something we can just forget about—I certainly don’t. I don’t have that luxury. Because it’s our safety at risk. 

“I don’t think you understand any of that. I don’t think you understand how trusting, and hopeful, and _naïve_ I had to be to even try to be friends with you in the first place.” He sighs, and it’s shaky, as though he’d been crying rather than speaking. Kurt rubs his back hard with the palm of his free hand. They’re past the point of really caring about the little things. And honestly, Blaine needs the contact, otherwise he will fall to pieces. 

Blaine knows he has to go on, though. And he will go on. Because it’s important. And he never, ever wants to talk about this with them again. So they have to hear it now. 

The room is still utterly silent except for the whir of the fan on Artie’s laptop, and Kurt’s even breathing near Blaine’s ear. 

Blaine goes on. “I’m saying all this because I want you to understand that it’s not that you just annoyed us, or embarrassed us. You violated us. You violated our trust. You violated our friendship. You violated my relationship with Kurt. Because sex isn’t just a nicer way to orgasm, for us. It’s freedom. It’s trust. It’s love. It’s everything we feel for one another, and everything we give to one another, expressed. Safely. In private. And you weren’t supposed to see that, and I didn’t want to tell you any of the things I just told you, but you forced my hand. And after tonight, I guess it just doesn’t matter anymore. Does it. 

“You know—” and the anger percolating in Blaine’s gut might have gotten up into his throat, into his voice now “—you might have noticed during your months upon months of spying that we’re not actually interested in other people seeing or judging us. We get quite enough of that from my family, and everyone at school, and half the people at every restaurant we go to in this state, and every fucking conservative politician and news outlet in this country. All right? We are not for you. You have no business seeing anything private about our relationship. We’re not hiding out of shame”—and Blaine is squeezing the shit out of Kurt’s hand, but he is speaking, and he is glaring them all down even if they can’t see it because they are, for the first time tonight, not looking. “We just…made our own space, our one safe space to just _be_. Because guess what, you can walk down the hall and hold hands with your girlfriend, and that’s safe for you. You can kiss your girlfriend in the hall, and that’s safe for you too. You can go on dates without getting stares and insults. You can get married, and everyone you know will come and support you and the government will applaud you and give you a financial pat on the head for upholding society. We can’t do any of that. Okay? We are hardly ever feel completely safe. And you all just took the one real safe space we had and…destroyed it. Do you get that? Everywhere else is shit. That was the only place,” Blaine chokes, and Kurt grips the back of his neck hard, hand hidden beneath the scarf. Blaine relaxes into it gratefully. 

_Just fuck it,_ Kurt thinks. They already saw him tying Blaine up and fucking his face and rimming him and fucking him—and Kurt has hit stage whatever on this rollercoaster ride of emotion, which apparently means he just doesn’t care what they think. Not now. He’s exhausted. He’s not going to neglect Blaine and what he needs just because these assholes might look twice. 

Blaine is still gathering himself together, but he squeezes Kurt’s hand, so Kurt takes over. “I hope you understand a little better now how horrifying what you did is.” He pauses. He’s not sure if it’s sinking in. None of the other boys seem able to look at him, which could go either way. He thinks the dead silence is probably a good sign, though. The lack of smart assery and jabs means they’re probably getting there. 

Kurt continues, “But you know what? If you don’t understand, frankly that’s not our problem. I’m very, very used to you not understanding me. And I’m also used to many of you abusing me for it. 

“I’m going to tell you what I expect from you going forward. Listen carefully. First, I expect you to not talk about this. At all. You may not reference it, you may not joke about it, you may not make conversation about it, you may not ask us about it. What you _can_ do is apologize—but later, because honestly I can’t stand to listen to your voices and look at you and try to forgive you today. Other than that, I expect not to hear about this. I expect that you will not tell anyone else. I don’t care that so-and-so is your soulmate and you tell them everything. I don’t care that you just need to get it off your chest. I don’t care that you feel like someone needs to know, for our sakes. I don’t care that you want to ask the one other gay person you know if this is normal. I don’t care if you’re confused and really just want to understand. I don’t care that the person you want to tell doesn’t know us. I’m telling you, right now: talking about what you illegally, immorally, nonconsensually watched tonight with anyone for any reason is unacceptable. This is not your business. This is not your life. The only reason you have this problem is that you deeply violated our privacy. 

A pause. Kurt hopes that sunk in. “So. Nothing leaves this room. And in public, I expect you to treat us the same as always. But you shouldn’t expect us to be too friendly, because believe me, having surpassed the silent shock and the crying and the vomiting—” hell, the other boys all saw it, so they might as well think about the reality of what they just put Kurt and Blaine through—“we are _furious_.”

Kurt thinks of one last thing, and it comes out his mouth without a second thought: “And I swear, if I hear one hint of a joke about sex positions, kinks, anything like that…well. Let’s just say that I have a whip, and believe me, I know how to use it. So just fuck off.” Immediately, his stomach churns—regret, maybe. Or is it just the rage circling back? He shouldn’t have said that—or should he?—God, maybe they should have waited until they were calmer after all—

His hands are shaking. Blaine squeezes his hand harder. It hurts, but it helps him focus. 

Artie and Puck are shifting uncomfortably, tensed up. The whole Squad is staring at the ground. 

“Does anyone have anything to say?” Kurt gets out, pushing his uncertainty aside. “Or am I understood?”

Sam’s shoulders bunch up near his ears, and his eyes flicker up to meet Kurt’s, then Blaine’s. “Just that—I’m really sorry, we—”

“Not today,” Blaine cuts him off, rubbing his thumb soothingly across the back of Kurt’s hand. “Not now. God, Sam, you knew what you were doing. You all _knew_ —why the hell would we be okay with you watching us have sex? We don’t even kiss in front of people, it’s just— But you did it anyway. You didn’t care until you got caught. So just…save it. I can’t even listen to it, I—” 

“Right,” Sam mumbles, and hunches over, eyes back on his feet. 

After a beat of silence, Kurt says, “There’s one more thing. We found the cameras you used.” Artie looks up, eyes full of trepidation. “We’re going to hold onto them for a while. If I hear so much as a whisper that any of you have talked to anyone else about this, we will gladly destroy them. I think that’s more than fair.” 

Artie nods sharply. 

Blaine thinks of one more eventuality: “We know it was a livestream. If it was recorded as well, if there’s a file saved—”

“It wasn’t—there isn’t,” Artie cuts him off quietly.

Blaine pauses. “If I find out you’re lying—”

“I’m not,” Artie says, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t—”

“Well, that doesn’t mean anything anymore, does it?” Blaine snaps. Artie sinks down in his chair, frowning heavily.

Kurt sighs, seeming to deflate a little as well, before he pulls himself together and says, “I honestly cannot deal with the idea of it being a recording as well. If I find out you’re lying, Artie….” He shakes his head. “I think we’re done for now.” He stands; Blaine follows half a beat later.

“It’s been a long night. We’re going home,” Kurt says.

“Leave us alone. And keep your mouths shut,” Blaine adds. 

They walk out, hand in hand, without a glance behind them. The room in their absence feels blown-out, like the aftermath of a bomb. Puck stumbles to the newly empty couch and flops down on it, stunned. Finn squeezes his eyes shut and puts his head between his knees.

Outside, in the car, Kurt’s arms start to shake so hard that he doesn’t feel safe driving, and Blaine offers to drive, but as soon as he cradles Kurt’s trembling hands he starts sobbing and can’t stop, and it’s fifteen minutes before either of them can calm themselves down enough to actually leave. 

Once they do get home, time passes in a haze of touch and comfort. They can’t seem to let go of one another for more than a few seconds, hands seeking hands, skin seeking skin. They try to take a bath together to warm up and calm down, but after two minutes Blaine can’t handle the weightless feeling on top of everything else, so they dry off and lay in bed instead, Kurt’s head cradled in the curve of Blaine’s neck, his body holding Blaine’s down, Blaine’s fingertips skating over and over and over the length of Kurt’s spine. They can’t seem to fall asleep, but they’re starting to drift when the sun rises. Their legs tangle together, and Kurt doesn’t really notice how Blaine’s hip is stabbing him a little, and Blaine doesn’t really notice how his throat is clammy from Kurt’s moist breath. Through the night they tell each other lies like It’s okay and It never happened it was a dream and What does it matter anyway and We’ll never talk to them again and Why should we care and We don’t care. They tell each other truths like We’ll get through this together and We are strong and What we did was beautiful despite all that and I love you, I love you, I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	11. Nationals

Three heavy, quiet days after, Finn finally works up the courage to knock on Kurt’s door. 

“Kurt, I—”

Kurt takes one look at his anxious face and sighs. “I’m not talking to you yet,” he says flatly.

“K—”

“No, Finn.” 

“But—”

“What part of ‘No’ do you not understand, Finn?”

“I—”

Kurt’s door shuts firmly in his face. 

Dinner is quiet that night, and for many nights after.

* * *

Burt notices. Of course he does. 

He lets it go for a bit, hoping whatever’s going on between his kids will work itself out. When it doesn’t, maybe four or five days in, he takes Kurt aside and asks what’s going on with him and Finn. 

“It’s private,” Kurt answers stiffly. 

Kurt would rather have pretty much any conversation other than this one. 

Burt, being Burt, presses a little. Kurt, being Kurt, is stubborn. 

But eventually Kurt caves a bit. “I really don’t want to talk about this,” he manages. “But if it helps at all, Finn…hurt me, so I’m very unhappy with him right now. But I’m sure I’ll eventually forgive him. He is my brother.” 

Burt considers him. He takes off his cap and scrubs a hand over his own stubbly head. 

“All right, kid,” he finally says. “I trust you. I’m not gonna wring it out of you. You just let me know if I’ve gotta talk to Finn, all right?” 

“No, Dad.” 

“And if he—called you anything—”

“I think my lamp and blanket are safe from homophobic slurs,” Kurt murmurs. Burt looks nonplussed. Kurt rolls his eyes, corrects himself: “I think he’s over the gay thing, Dad. It’s not really about that.” 

“Yeah, well, good,” Burt grunts. Then he sighs, and hugs his very tense son. Eventually Kurt relaxes into it a little and squeezes him back. 

“Okay, kid,” he says, releasing him. “Good talk.” He pauses in the hallway. “It’s my night. Dinner in fifty or so.” 

By which he means, I love you. 

“Thanks, Dad,” Kurt answers quietly from the other side of the doorway.

By which he means, I love you too.

* * *

Five days in, Blaine officially needs to box. 

He’s anxious as hell. His thought race constantly. (A cycle: _Don’t think about it—they saw they saw they saw they saw—don’t think about it think about anything else please please—they saw me being licked open and begging for it—_ or _fucked open_ or _kissing Kurt’s cock_ or _tied up,_ it’s different every time, so many distinct and vivid and deeply private humiliations to choose from—but regardless, then it gets back to: _don’t think about it—they saw—goddamnit fuck them fuck them I hate them I hate this I hate hate hate—stop thinking about it—I hate you for thinking about this—don’t think about it—they saw—don’t_ think _about it—_ ) And he keeps jumping when anybody other than Kurt touches him, including his own mother. He can’t concentrate in class. If Kurt could just put him in subspace all the time, he’d probably be doing much better. But, well, that’s not really an option, considering the whole high school thing. And besides, Blaine thinks, he should be able to handle his own shit. 

Or, well, he should be able to handle most of it most of the time, at least, he tells himself, trying to be gentler. 

(“Blaine, try not to be so hard on yourself,” his old therapist told him once when he came in upset over all his little daily mistakes and missteps, the ones nobody else even noticed but that haunted Blaine for days, weeks, months. And Kurt echoed her, much later: “Be gentler with yourself, sweetie,” he whispered one night when Blaine was particularly stressed and self-recriminating. And then, a mercy: “Don’t worry—I’ll be hard on you. When you need it. Okay?”) 

The only trouble with the whole boxing-to-alleviate-stress thing is that the only punching bag of any kind Blaine has access to is the one at McKinley, since his mother thinks that the habit is distasteful and possibly violence-inducing and won’t allow a bag in the garage. 

And the other guys—Puck and Sam and Finn and Mike, sometimes Artie—probably still work out together at the McKinley gym. 

To complicate things further, Blaine is still covered in marks from his inner thighs up his spine and all around his shoulders and collarbones and neck and throat and even his jaw a bit. In his better moments, he thinks they’re beautiful and deeply arousing, but of course he has to be extra careful now. He’s been wearing his highest collared shirts a little higher this week. Also scarves, lots of scarves—luckily, Kurt is a wonderful resource for scarves. And he’s been leaning his left cheek on his hand as much as possible, hoping no one notices the bite mark under and just peeking onto his jawline. (Actually he’s pretty sure Santana noted it immediately, but she’s blessedly kept her mouth shut, probably saving it for blackmail later. God, as though Blaine needs to worry about all this getting out to the rest of the school….)

Anyway. Boxing. _Focus._ God, Blaine can’t keep his head in one place for more than two seconds; it is frustrating as hell. He needs to get the restless energy out. 

Thursday morning, he cracks. He wakes up from a nightmare at about four a.m. and has one second of the typical post-nightmare relief—‘oh, it wasn’t real’—before realizing that the dream had pretty much been a recreation of everything from Mike knocking on the door to walking out of Artie’s house. Sure, there had been some zombies too, but—close enough. Shit. 

Blaine sits up, showers, does not look at his naked marked-up body in the mirror, dresses, grabs a light breakfast, and hops in the car. 

By six fifteen, he’s pounding away at the bag in the boys’ locker room. Something like clarity, something like relief, gathers in him for the first time since he left Kurt’s bed on Saturday afternoon. He sinks into a haze, gratefully. 

Rhythm and breath. That’s all. 

By seven, his fingers and triceps and back are all starting to ache, but everything is blessedly clear and quiet inside. All he’s thinking about is the beat of his fists against the bag, the satisfying reverberation up his arm as he connects, the sweat dripping in his eyes—he takes two seconds and rips off his soaked-through zip-up hoodie before getting back to the bag, resuming the rhythm. 

And then the inevitable happens. 

Puck, Sam, Artie, and Finn come through the door and stop short. Blaine had been planning on finishing up before their usual arrival time, seven thirty, but it isn’t as though this exact situation hadn’t occurred to him before he arrived. About a hundred times. 

_Fuck._ Three more punches in quick succession. _Don’t think about it—jab jab jab—don’t think about it—whack jab—breathe—breathe—_

God, he just wants relief for a little longer—

“Holy shit, bro,” comes out of Finn’s mouth. 

By the time Blaine turns his head, Puck has clapped a hand over the lower half of Finn’s face. “Shut _up_ , Hudson,” he growls. 

Well, that’s…ambiguous. 

( _It’s about the marks it’s about the bruises there are so many colors now, it’s so obvious—don’t think about it—you look like you got hurt—don’t think about it—you know exactly what it looks like—don’t think about it—you can see bite marks—they all saw it they’re all thinking it they all saw it happen they saw how you liked it they saw how you begged for it they saw it they saw—stop thinking about it—just stop—they saw they saw they’re_ seeing—)

It’s pointless. Blaine steps back from the bag, heaving, a challenge in his eyes. When no one says anything, and they don’t go away either, he gets his gloves off and starts methodically unwrapping his throbbing hands. Note taking in class is going to hurt today…. 

God, their eyes trail. He can feel them—tracking the purpling marks crowded into his throat and down to his shoulders, spreading over his chest before they disappear beneath his tank top. Some are big and blooming, sucked into his skin over the course of minutes (minutes they all watched in HD surround-sound _don’t don’t don’t think about it_ ); others are sharp distinct bites, the individual tooth marks still visible. 

Blaine knows exactly which mark Kurt bit into him as he came. 

He hastily yanks his hoodie back on— _stop letting them see god why did you let them see why did you come at all why did you take the hoodie off god just stop thinking about it_ —chucks his gloves into his gym bag.

All his hard-earned calm is gone, and anger gets to the surface first. “You have something to say, or are you just going to stare?” Blaine snarls. Puck heaves a long sigh and hunches his shoulders up, ducking his head. No one says anything. Blaine stuffs the last of his things into his bag. “I’d think you got enough staring done already,” he mutters on the way out. 

Puck’s eyebrows draw in; Artie looks down. Sam opens his mouth but seems to think better of it. 

Blaine brushes past them and into the free air, yanking his sweat-soaked hoodie further up around his throat. His entire body is sticky—he’ll have to skip first period to go take a shower. Put himself together. 

He can’t really find it in himself to care.

* * * 

The remaining time until Nationals is pretty much hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute chaos. 

Luckily, this leaves very little energy for rage or hatred. Things are strained sometimes—at home with Finn (and sometimes Sam), in Glee with everybody all together, and of course in the mornings when Blaine pushes past the other boys on his way out of the locker room—but on the whole, it’s manageable.

Things do get edgy when Blaine has to take off his (unwieldy and very warm) wrapped scarf for an impromptu lunch-hour dance practice, revealing the fading bites all over his throat. They’re hardly visible beneath the dim auditorium lighting—no one bothered to turn the stage lights on, since they technically haven’t reserved the space—but Santana (of _course_ it had to be Santana) spots them somehow and spends half the practice staring until Blaine snaps at her, confusing the hell out of Mercedes, who’s standing nearby. Santana just raises her eyebrows and gives him an exaggerated once-over while he seethes. 

Blaine’s frets over it until that evening, when he and Kurt take the ten minutes before dinner to ignore their piling schoolwork and just sit together. Blaine settles in crosslegged, his back to Kurt’s front, between Kurt’s stretched-out legs. Kurt’s arms fold firmly across Blaine’s middle. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Kurt sighs, rubbing Blaine’s belly absently. “For one, hickeys are old news, and that’s all they look like now. Plus Santana actually likes you, so she probably won’t be mean about it. She probably just thinks I like to roleplay as a really gentle vampire or something. Worst case scenario, she’ll make obscure innuendos for a week or two and then forget about it.” The actual worst case scenario is that Santana would mention it to one of the guys and they’d let something slip, but Kurt decides that that’s unlikely and Blaine doesn’t need anything else to worry about. 

Kurt himself doesn’t need anything else to worry about either, but things keep piling up, and there’s no relief in sight. Not until after graduation, anyway. He sighs and buries his face in Blaine’s warm neck, and Blaine hugs Kurt’s arms tighter around himself. 

“You don’t worry about it either, okay?” comes Blaine’s careful voice. “You have enough on your plate.” 

It’s a sign of how exhausted Kurt’s getting that he just murmurs “Okay” and burrows his nose further into the soft, un-gelled hair at the base of Blaine’s skull.

*

A new stress emerges the next day. Mr. Schu gives New Directions their rooming assignments for Nationals: all the girls and Kurt will be in one room, and the rest of the boys including Blaine in a room two floors down. 

It takes all of one look at Blaine’s carefully blank face for Kurt to know that that is not going to happen. Not if he has anything to say about it.

After practice, Kurt and Blaine go up to Mr. Schu together—or, more accurately, corner him in his office—to let him know that both of them refuse to be roomed with the rest of the boys. 

It’s not a particularly constructive conversation. Kurt gets progressively more vicious (though he tries to be careful, given that Mr. Schu is in a position of power, and a teacher and all); Mr. Schu gets angrier and angrier, and doesn’t seem to be listening; and Blaine shrinks in on himself until he’s standing a full foot behind Kurt, gripping his own elbows. 

He can’t decide if he’s furious or nervous or just really sad. He can’t keep track of what’s going on in his own head anymore. It’s exhausting.

He kind of tries to tune out the whole conversation, honestly.

But when Kurt groans loudly and pushes his hands into his eyes in frustration, Blaine tugs him back a step and keeps a hand on his elbow. 

“Look, Kurt and I are both really stressed out right now, and I’m sure you are too,” Blaine says, trying to keep the fury-nerves-sadness out of his voice as Mr. Schu turns slowly to him, apparently very willing to continue escalating the argument with Blaine instead. “Let’s just talk about this again tomorrow, okay?” And he pulls Kurt out of the room before either of them can respond. 

There are really only two ways forward, as far as Kurt and Blaine are concerned: the club will have to come up with extra money to pay for two girls-and-gay-guys rooms and one straight-guys room, or Mr. Schu will just have to suck it up and let Kurt and Blaine stay in the same room, with the girls.

And all three of them know how well fundraising goes over at this school. 

The next day, when a slightly calmer Mr. Schu explains that he is reluctant on grounds of ‘propriety,’ Kurt hisses, “Mr. Schu, I hear what you’re saying, but do you seriously think that Blaine and I would have sex in the same room with six women? Come on.” 

Finn, still packing up behind them, makes a choking sound, and practically runs out when Kurt whips around to deliver a death glare. 

Mr. Schu looks vaguely green and insists he ‘needs some time to think about it.’ 

And then he doesn’t make eye contact with either of them for two days. 

Then, a kindness: on Friday, when Kurt and Blaine hang back at the end of practice yet again, Santana and Brittany hang back too. Kurt raises an eyebrow at Santana, but she just raises her eyebrows right back before letting Brittany tug her to her feet. 

What follows is both effective and somewhat disturbing. Brittany speaks in Brittanyisms (a few of which Kurt later actually understands, once his brain turns them over several times), confusing the hell out of Mr. Schu; Santana ends up somewhere between ‘impressively tight argument’ and ‘this has far surpassed innuendo and in fact most of it would probably be bleeped out on cable.’ Still, in the end, a shell-shocked Mr. Schu seems to get the message: Brittany and Santana, too, are a couple, and Mr. Schu was apparently fine with letting the two of them stay in the same room. And has he really considered that Brittany is bi? Because there was never a conversation about sticking her in her own room just in case she wanted to have sex with somebody. And, if it had occurred to him to actually separate all the couples, well, he should know there’s no way in hell Santana or Brittany are staying with the straight boys. So he can just toss that idea out right away. Kurt and Blaine should both stay in the girls’ room—it’ll make everybody more comfortable. 

In the end, Mr. Schu caves and stalks off to the file cabinets to sulk. 

Kurt and Blaine hug in Brittany in thanks, and Brittany pressures Kurt into promising to wear his unicorn horn to school one day in repayment. (“I can’t believe you agreed to that,” Blaine whispers, to which Kurt responds “I never specified _where_ I’d wear it. I’ve pulled off tails. I’m sure I’ll manage.”) When Kurt and Blaine try to thank Santana, she rolls her eyes and says, “Queer is pretty much my third nationality. Got to stick together.” But a smile sneaks out before she turns away. 

As she and Brittany go through the doorway hand-in-hand, she adds, “But I expect that Britts and I will get bed privileges the whole weekend, so you’d best be prepared to sleep on the floor, my sweet gays.” 

Kurt snorts, but bumps his shoulder against Blaine’s affectionately, ever aware of Mr. Schu still organizing sheet music on the other side of the room. “Compared to the alternative, I’ll take it,” he says. 

Blaine smiles. “Me too.”

*

Of course it wasn’t going to go smoothly. Nothing ever does. 

They get to their hotel on the outskirts of Chicago on that Friday night, hyped up on pre-Nationals nerves. Their room is small, especially for nine people and their suitcases. Kurt’s quite surprised that the hotel staff haven’t called them on it yet—there’s no way it’s legal to have more than four or five people in there—but the nine of them have bigger problems to worry about. Like who gets to shower in the morning. And where in the world to sleep.

They manage to fit three girls in each bed, with two laying normally and one crossways at their feet—Santana, Brittany, and Quinn in one; Rachel, Mercedes, and Sugar in another. Tina claims the little loveseat-couch-thing, which unfortunately isn’t a pull-out. The hotel says that they’re out of cots—unsurprising, given the number of show choirs packed in the hotel—so Kurt and Blaine gather all the extra bedding they can find and make what amounts to a nest between the beds, where they figure they’re least likely to get stepped on. 

That night, everybody sleeps restlessly. They’re exhausted from the drive but also crazy nervous about the competition the next afternoon—plus, sleeping in a room with eight other people is just a lot to deal with. Some of the girls keep making weird breathing noises and somebody keeps getting up to pee, and somebody in one bed or another gets kicked at least once an hour. 

It’s difficult for Kurt and Blaine, especially since they’d decided to keep things very G—considering Mr. Schu’s reluctance to let them room together as well as Santana’s general presence. 

So Kurt, who wakes up every time someone yelps or snores particularly hard, has to keep prying Blaine’s clinging limbs off of him (because god knows that’s led to half-awake frottage before)—and every time he does, Blaine blinks awake with the saddest kicked-puppy look on his face before apologizing softly and rolling over. Once, Kurt, still half-awake from the last time someone turned on the bathroom light, has to stop an uncomfortably warm Blaine from removing his own shirt in his sleep. Half-awake and tugging his shirt back on, Blaine tries to nuzzle into Kurt’s chest, and Kurt has to push him away again. And it might just be the exhaustion, but it feels like his heart is breaking. Kurt lays a cool hand on Blaine’s hot forehead and reaches up to steal the pillow that Sugar’s not using. He wraps Blaine around that instead, and Blaine drops back off to an uneasy sleep. From there on out, it’s a little easier. Still, Kurt doesn’t sleep quite as well when he’s not wrapped up in his warm lovely Blaine…. 

When the nine of them emerge for the complimentary continental breakfast at eight in the morning with red-rimmed eyes, half of them still in pajamas, Mr. Schu raises his eyebrows critically. “Late night, guys?” he asks. His tone is mild, but Kurt can feel the reprimand building—everybody was supposed to get to bed right away, to give them a good night of sleep for the competition today. He plates a blueberry bagel for himself and sticks one in the toaster for Blaine. He’s too tired to care. 

“It’s too early for orgy jokes, Mr. Schu,” Santana mutters, pulling Brittany’s hair back just in time to save it from an open jar of jelly. Puck, a couple people back in the line, perks up at ‘orgy’ but deflates as soon as he spots Kurt and Blaine.

Mr. Schu, wisely, shuts up. 

A combination of nerves and caffeine works its magic: they’re all plenty awake for the competition itself. And somewhere in the haze of last-minute practices and costume changes and minor catastrophes (“WHERE IS MY OTHER SOCK?” Puck is yelling at one point, to which Santana quietly raises an eyebrow), they manage to pull themselves together enough to perform. Or, as Artie puts it, “To fucking _bring it_.” 

They fucking bring it. 

When the curtain closes, everybody’s stage smiles are stuck to their faces and the adrenaline is just not wearing off, and honestly Kurt’s not sure he remembers anything between the last note and sitting down in the audience ten minutes later. (Well, nothing but Blaine’s triumphant smile as they ran off stage.)

Afterwards, they wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. Kurt and Blaine sit next to one another and hold hands covertly beneath their shared armrest. Blaine whispers commentary on other groups’ vocal blending and costume choices, but Kurt can’t concentrate. He’s too nervous. All he can manage is a half-hearted scoff at one group who seems to be dressed exclusively in feathers. By the time New Directions is back up on stage for the awards ceremony, he’s practically shivering right out of his skin. 

And then: 

They win.

They _win_. 

Kurt and Blaine grab one another—they don’t even think about it. They’re hugging, like full-body hugging, nuzzling and clinging and picking each other up hugging—on stage and no one cares in the chaos and the noise is deafening, probably because they’re both screaming—and _Rachel_ is screaming, jesus does that girl have a set of lungs on her—

After they all stop screaming (and Puck stops yelling “HOLY SHIT. HOLY. SHIT.”), and after they get their enormous awesome spectacular perfect trophy off stage safely, no one really knows what to do other than smile a lot and look sort of dazed. They attempt to have a show circle in their dressing room, but everybody who tries to make a speech only gets halfway through before they start crying, even Mr. Schu, so they just laugh through tears and give up on it. Speeches are for later. For now, they have a group hug and change back into their warmup clothes. Kurt’s clothes from earlier sit strangely on him; he feels like he should be wearing something entirely different, brighter. Something that says less _I’m nervous as hell and I got no sleep and yes I do need inch long spikes on my shoulders to face this day_ and more _WE WON_.

The club splits and heads back to their respective hotel rooms to freshen up. As soon as Rachel keys them into the room, Kurt tugs Blaine into the bathroom under the guise of fixing his hair, which is wild with gel and sweat. 

Santana—and Mercedes and Tina, for that matter—give them pointed looks, which they summarily ignore. Inside, Kurt backs Blaine up against the wall and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, hungry and open and happy, and Blaine goes loose and giggly against him. 

“Shhh,” Kurt insists, pressing a kiss to Blaine’s cheek. 

“Too happy,” Blaine answers, leaning up to kiss Kurt again. 

After that, they have to stop and actually fix Blaine’s hair, because Kurt desperately wants to put a hand down Blaine’s pants—to feel Blaine warm and whimpering and gasping air from Kurt’s mouth—in fact, he wants it so badly that he’s not sure he won’t actually do it. And they’ve had quite enough exhibitionism for one lifetime, thank you very much. 

Blaine sits on the little bathroom stool, pushing up into Kurt’s firm hands as they sculpt his hair back into place. His eyes are closed, but he’s grinning. 

“You little hedonist,” Kurt laughs. He’s just _adorable_ , and Kurt—who had forgotten for a moment why joy and triumph keep bubbling up in his throat—is still being buoyed up and up by their win. 

“Mmmm,” Blaine agrees. 

“I think you’re enjoying this too much,” Kurt jokes, scratching near the base of Blaine’s skull. 

Blaine pushes into that, too. “It feels good,” he smiles, tilting his head back toward Kurt’s hands. 

“You should let me dress you sometime,” Kurt says, considering, digging his fingers back into Blaine’s hair. It’s something they’ve talked about once or twice but haven’t tried—Blaine was reluctant for reasons he couldn’t explain fully, concerns about independence and dependence, about having his own identity. “Not all the time, or regularly,” Kurt adds thoughtfully. “Nothing like that. And only if you’d be comfortable with it now, of course. I just think….” He trails off, stroking behind Blaine’s ears. 

“Does this count as coercion?” Blaine moans quietly, pushing his head further back against Kurt’s steady hands. His eyes slit open, and his mouth curves into a generous grin. 

“Maybe,” Kurt laughs, quite willing to let the conversation veer off if that’s what Blaine wants. “But I get the feeling you don’t want me to stop.”

Blaine hums his agreement, eyes sliding shut again. “We should try it,” he murmurs as Kurt finishes, adds a few last touch-ups. “Just once, just to see. I think I’d like that.” 

Kurt smiles big in the mirror and leans down to press a kiss at the corner of Blaine’s jaw. “Thank you, sweetie,” he says. 

Blaine spins around on the stool and pulls Kurt between his legs. He tilts his face up, resting his chin on Kurt’s sternum. “I love you.” 

“I love you t—”

“ _HEY_!” Santana’s voice bursts through the locked door. “If you can get your hands out of each other’s pants for dos segundos, some of us have to pee! And by some of us, I mean all seven of us!” 

“Our hands aren’t down one another’s pants!” Kurt yells back, scandalized. 

“Your own pants, then!” Tina shouts. 

Blaine hangs his head, laughing helplessly. 

“No one’s hands are down anyone’s—oh, for god’s sake.” Kurt yanks the door open with a flourish. “See?” 

“ _Out_ , I have to pee,” Santana insists, pushing them out. 

“Okay, okay,” Kurt replies, harried. The abrupt shift from private to public, the uneasiness that goes along with interrupted intimacy, is all too familiar. The feeling isn’t exactly scarring this time, but it immediately brings back the memory of that night just a couple weeks ago—

Needless to say, Kurt is feeling more than a little put out until he sees Rachel sitting crosslegged on one of the beds, quietly hugging the enormous Nationals trophy with the hugest smile on her face. And then Blaine, apparently ignoring everybody else in the room, comes up behind him and hugs him around the waist, resting his chin on Kurt’s shoulder. 

A rush of contentment and affection settles in Kurt’s gut. All is right with the world. 

Well, okay, a little privacy would be nice. But this is still pretty damn close to perfect.

*

All the screaming and flailing and pride and, yes, _glee_ aside, though, they are collectively exhausted. 

Mr. Schu takes them all to McDonald’s to grab midnight dinner, and somewhere in there some of the shock wears off and the bone-deep tiredness seeps in. So they bolt down some chicken nuggets of questionable origin and endless fattening fries (except Rachel, who can hardly stand to breathe the air, much less eat her salad, insisting that everything is infected with dead animals and their feces). And after that they are done. By the end of the meal, Brittany is sleeping on Santana’s shoulder, and Joe has nodded off on the sticky table. Kurt and Blaine are nominally awake, leaning heavily against one another, more than they would normally allow in a restaurant. So all of Puck’s plans to somehow get booze in and have a “party for winners because we are fucking winners” and Rachel’s insistence that they sneak out to go to celebratory karaoke disappear the moment they get back to their rooms. 

“My entire body hurts,” Tina moans, fully dressed and facedown on the couch. “Oh god, nope, I’m not gonna move. Somebody else can take my shower spot.” 

“At least take off your heels,” Kurt says blankly from the doorway. Tina flails her way out of her footwear and puts her pillow over her head. 

Only half of the girls even make it into their pajamas before they’re dead asleep. Kurt is the last one down—having performed the shortest version of his moisturizing routine he’s ever allowed himself, he clicks off the bathroom light and reenters the pitch black main room. He’s already half-asleep as he feels his way between the beds, down to the warm nest where Blaine is curled, already asleep. He can’t see more than two inches in front of his face, but he knows Blaine’s body like his own; he knows where he fits. 

Kurt settles in half on top of Blaine, his head tucked where Blaine’s arm and torso meet, their legs twined together. A moment later, Blaine snuffles happily, and his legs tighten around Kurt’s to pull him closer; his arm wraps securely around Kurt’s waist. And Kurt, achy and a little gross, feels something in him, his heart or gut or soul, shift and center on Blaine, on Blaine’s breath, his warmth against him. 

Everything must be all right, because here is his love in his arms, happy and safe. He sinks down into a deep sleep within seconds.

*

The next thing Kurt is even remotely aware of is several voices _oooooooooh_ ing exaggeratedly above them. 

Followed by the electronic click of a picture taken on somebody’s phone. 

“Oh my god, please not again,” Blaine groans into the pillow. 

Kurt’s eyes slide reluctantly open. He and Blaine have shifted in the night. They’re sharing a pillow. In fact, they’re spooning—Blaine’s back is snug against Kurt’s front. It would look very sweet (if closer to PG-13 than intended), except that one of Kurt’s hands is holding Blaine rather securely around the base of his throat, and one of Blaine’s hands is wrapped around Kurt’s wrist, keeping it there. 

And Kurt’s other hand is—well, it’s down Blaine’s pants. It’s just barely down his pants, cradling his hipbone, holding Blaine firmly against Kurt. Nowhere near his dick. But still. 

And neither of them has a shirt on, Kurt realizes belatedly. He has no idea when that happened—they must have gotten too hot in the middle of the night. (Unsurprising—it’s not the first time that’s happened, and it’s about a hundred degrees in the room. Nine people sleeping in one room will do that.) 

Kurt sighs heavily. There’s nothing to do about it now. Thank god the marks he left on Blaine are almost completely gone—most have faded away entirely thanks to Blaine’s olive skin, and the rest are only noticeable if you’re really looking for them. 

“Again?” comes Santana’s deceptively sugary voice. 

Kurt removes himself from Blaine’s body and rolls onto his back to find half the girls hovering over them. Mercedes’s eyes are about as big as her head. He glares half-heartedly. Rachel is concealing a giggle behind her hand. 

“So—” Santana starts, but Kurt cuts her off with a groan.

“Can we not?” Kurt grumbles. “Can we please just get breakfast and not talk about…about sleeping positions, or whatever it is you’re looking so happy about?” He covers his face in his hands. “My life is absurd” comes out muffled from between them. 

“I second that motion,” Blaine mumbles, eyes still squeezed shut. 

“Oh, Ladyface, Andergay, we have a four hour road trip back to Lima before you can escape me. We’re gonna talk about _sleeping positions_ as much as Auntie Tana likes.”

Kurt glares and chucks his pillow in Santana’s general direction, but he hits a half-aware Brittany by accident. This sparks a vigorous eight-person pillow fight, during which Blaine, concealing one very insistent case of morning wood, manages to escape to the bathroom. Kurt congratulates himself on his handling of the whole situation and tackles Rachel to a bed with two pillows sandwiched between them. 

About two minutes into the dreaded bus ride, Santana mercifully passes out in Brittany’s lap. Kurt and Blaine get to spend the ride in peace, singing along with the radio and staring out at the passing Indiana and Ohio countryside. Kurt also spends most of the ride desperately trying to ignore Blaine’s very, very tight mustard yellow pants. Or, rather, the body beneath them. God, Blaine’s thighs. His _knees,_ even. His… _well_. Kurt just wants to slide a hand up that inner seam and…. 

He stops himself there. He’s been pushing away lust since waking up against a half-naked Blaine this morning—since kissing Blaine in the bathroom yesterday—oh, lord, he hasn’t kissed Blaine since then, has he? He _wants_ to. He can’t help it. 

Kurt’s eyes flick up Blaine’s ludicrously appealing body to his even more ludicrously appealing face, where he finds Blaine watching him back with dark, interested eyes. Blaine glances around—everybody else is either asleep or singing loudly along with ‘My Humps’ on the radio—and leans in to press a sucking, lingering kiss just under Kurt’s jaw. Kurt shudders, then glares half-heartedly and pinches Blaine’s wrist. _Later,_ he mouths, and Blaine nods, bumping Kurt’s shoulder with his own in apology. But they both know there might not be a later, not for a while. 

They get back to Lima in the evening, and by the time he’s getting ready for bed, Kurt’s starting to think that Santana’s forgotten the morning awkwardness entirely. That’s when he receives a text with an attached picture of him and Blaine sleeping. 

‘sleeping positions, hmm?’ it says. ‘wanky.’

‘Santana, you’re a lesbian,’ he replies. 

‘dont rly think youre qualified to tell me how lesbianism works hummel,’ is her answer. 

And another: ‘looks like you’re about to strangle the boy jsyk.’ 

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. 

He does forward the picture to Blaine, though. The circumstances aren’t the best, and it’s uncomfortably suggestive, but there’s something about it…. His eyes trace the lines of his own pale arms encasing Blaine’s torso, at Blaine’s hand holding Kurt’s own to Blaine’s throat…. Blaine sends back _< 3_.

It’s very _them,_ Kurt decides. So much so that he wouldn’t have wanted others to see it, but very them all the same. 

He saves it onto his laptop in a folder marked ‘misc. fabric samples.’ He digs it back out often. There’s nothing quite as calming as holding Blaine like that, but looking at the picture sometimes helps.

*

As they edge past Nationals and near graduation day, Kurt is almost completely over the Nationals awkwardness. He’s also getting better at refusing to ruminate over the spying catastrophe. At one point, he makes it for a whole day and a half without thinking about any of it, a new record—but that’s only because he’s so stressed out about everything else that he can hardly think at all. 

Blaine is a great help. He’s practically living at Kurt’s house—he gives Kurt massages and quizzes him for his last finals and assists him with graduation wardrobe choices and helps his family prepare the house for guests (for what is effectively two sets of extended families, since Kurt and Finn are both graduating). Kurt rewards him with praise and endless thanks and kisses and hugs, and he lets Blaine sit at his feet (sometimes doing homework, sometimes just resting his cheek on Kurt’s thigh) as Kurt works—but there’s just no time or privacy for anything more elaborate. 

(Well, okay, they manage desperate handjobs a couple of times when the lust and simple desire for contact get overwhelming. And Blaine, kneeling at Kurt’s feet, does nuzzle his way up Kurt’s thighs and into giving Kurt a blowjob once. But certainly there’s no big block of time to set aside just for them, just for a scene, just for the relief of skin on skin.) 

It’s grueling, especially given the whole spying catastrophe. Blaine knows that Kurt is stressed right up to breaking point and needs a release, and Kurt knows that Blaine needs reassurance and a safe space. All they want to do is have a moment to breathe and take care of one another. But there’s no time or place for it.

_All I can do is my best._

Tonight, Blaine gives Kurt’s tense shoulders one final rub. Kurt looks up from his work to smile at Blaine, take him gently by the back of the neck and draw him down to kneel between his legs. Blaine sighs deeply, his lips curving upwards slightly as he rests his forehead on Kurt’s inner thigh. Kurt runs his fingers once through Blaine’s hair, then returns to his work. 

_This is enough for now. It has to be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	12. Truth or Dare

Finally, graduation day comes. 

Kurt wakes up before his alarm. Everything is warm and yellow and hazy with sleepiness and the young day’s light. 

He lays there, lax, breathing and staring at the sunlight streaming softly through his curtains. 

He feels like he’s just exited a very long, very dark train tunnel, surprised to find himself alive, shocked to see the world expanding bright and alive in all directions before him. 

_It’s over_ , he thinks, sitting up to greet the day. _It’s over_. 

He starts crying a little. He’s never had much of an interest in holding back tears. 

_It’s over,_ he thinks again, giddy, and laughs through the tears.

Well—there’s still one ceremony, including one crappy, shapeless, bright red polyester robe, and then it’ll be over. 

Kurt doesn’t stop humming all morning. He even sings a little to Blaine in the car, and Blaine kisses his cheeks and forehead and finally his mouth, and he blooms open under Blaine’s lips; he is nearly late for the senior class pre-graduation alphabetical lineup. 

The ceremony itself passes in a blur. He catches himself humming _at last, at laaast, my love has come along,_ and he’s thinking about Blaine of course, but also about freedom, _at last_ freedom, _at last_ here is his life right in front of him. 

It’s overwhelming. It’s all overwhelming. Honestly, Kurt doesn’t remember half of the ceremony. 

But god, when he passes that tassel over his face….

He’s done it. He’s survived. He’s escaped. He’s won.

He could literally rip this polyester monstrosity off right now and no one could do a goddamn thing about it. (He’s sure his dad and Blaine will want pictures before then, though. …Maybe he’ll have a ceremonial burning for it later….) 

Oh god, he never has to live here again. Because yes, he has made wonderful friends and had wonderful days and sang wonderful songs here, and he remade a family here, and he met Blaine here, and he doesn’t regret any of that, but _god_ living here has been so fucking hard, and now he doesn’t have to. He really gets to move on to the next chapter of his life, _at last._

As soon as he gets off the stage, he falls into his dad’s arms. He clings. He cries. He thanks his dad incoherently. His dad cries a little too, and then shoves him off so Kurt can kiss Carole’s cheek and go congratulate all his friends again. 

And then, finally, he wraps himself around Blaine, whispers love and thanks into his hair. Blaine tucks his face into Kurt’s neck and squeezes him hard and presses a kiss to his throat. Kurt suppresses the inappropriate shudder of arousal, suppresses the unspooling fantasy of dragging Blaine out to the Navigator, holding him down in the backseat, blowing him so slowly and thoroughly that he forgets how to speak— _wait,_ he tells himself, even as bits of him screech _you’ve waited so long_ and _you’re free_ and _your lover is holding you, you want this, you can have this, so take it._ He takes a deep breath, feeling Blaine do the same against him, and tells himself: _Don’t be ridiculous. Wait._ He releases Blaine with one more squeeze, and they exchange watery smiles. 

Before everybody piles off to their respective family gatherings, Santana finds every last person from Glee and informs them that they are partying _hard_ at her place tonight, starting whenever they can escape from their relatives and ending whenever the alcohol runs out. (Which, she adds, had better be after the sun comes up.) 

“No excuses!” she snarls at all of them. 

“And Porcelain,” she adds on the way out of the auditorium, “I’m getting you shitfaced if it’s the last thing I do. Count on it.” Her nails pinch threateningly into Kurt’s forearm. 

Kurt’s honestly still crying a little, but he laughs through his tears and nods at her. He doesn’t have it in him to be nervous or defensive or snarky right now. He giggles a little more thinking of himself a few years ago timidly, drunkenly accepting muscle magazines from April Rhodes. 

God, the Santana he knew (mostly from a safe distance) four years ago would never have even talked to him. Let alone partied with him. Let alone threatened him to be sure she’d see him, in her own strangely loving way. And now look at them—he’s out, she’s out, he’s with Blaine, she’s with Brittany, they sing together and dance together and drink together and she periodically makes weird but not actually mean jokes about strangulation to him and they’re _friends._

God. He’s going to miss Santana, of all people. 

Kurt can’t help it, he just laughs. He’s blotchy with tears and laughing like a maniac and he can’t even bring himself to care. Blaine waves Santana off and promises they’ll be there; Santana gives them an approving wink and jogs to catch up with Brittany. 

Kurt kisses Blaine on the temple right there in the auditorium (flanked by his dad on one side and half the glee club on the other), and then again on the mouth against his Navigator in the parking lot, because he just doesn’t care. There’s nothing left in him for this school. 

He is free.

* * * 

“Oh my god,” Kurt groans as he and Blaine climb into the Navigator that night. “I thought it would never end.” He shoots Blaine a reluctant grin.

It turns out that they should have planned for three extended families—at the last minute, Sam’s family decided to come up for a few days to celebrate with them, see some old friends, and then take Sam away for a few weeks at home. 

All together, it amounted to approximately one shit ton of people. And it seemed every single one of them needed to be told (or retold) the whole adorable story of Burt and Carole’s relationship, Finn and Kurt’s friendship (the heavily edited version, obviously), Sam’s family’s struggles, Sam’s effective entrance into the new Hummel-Hudson family, the glee club’s journey to Nationals, et cetera. Kurt honestly started to lose track of who was from which family. Mostly he tried to stick to the kitchen, where he at least felt comfortable and useful, but people kept dragging him out saying it was his day and he shouldn’t be stuck helping out. 

Also, his hair is messed up from where someone’s infant was messing with it, and he’s pretty sure his entire body is made of graduation cake. 

He’s completely drained—but, for the first time in weeks, there is not an ounce of stress in his body. 

“That was awesome,” Blaine grins, leaning back against the headrest to give Kurt that adoring sidelong look that Kurt so loves. “Everybody loved your pasta salad, and your aunt Joanie’s kids were so adorable, and the cake was ridiculously good, and it didn’t rain, and no one said anything horrifying to us even when we accidentally held hands for like twenty minutes.” He pauses, inching closer to Kurt. “You know what I call that, Kurt? I call that a success.”

“How do you even have energy to talk right now?” Kurt moans, grinning despite himself. “You just played with children for _seven hours._ ” 

It’s true. Blaine was awesome with the kids. Kurt is trying not to let his mind get away from him. Moving out and higher education and jobs and marriage first. (…And perhaps also munches and actual in-person bondage classes and possibly maybe play parties too….) 

…Then children. 

With Blaine. 

Kurt gets chills down both arms. With graduation over and Blaine by his side, his future hangs bright and real before him, close enough to see, close enough to touch. 

“I have energy for a lot more than talking, Kurt,” Blaine is whispering, and Kurt smiles helplessly as Blaine takes his mouth in a lush kiss. 

“Blaine, we’re still in my driveway,” he mumbles against Blaine’s lips. But then he can’t help himself; he pulls Blaine deeper before Blaine can even answer. It’s been too damn long.

Blaine draws back half a minute later. “I don’t care,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.” 

“Mmmm,” Kurt hums, eyes sliding open reluctantly. “Isn’t that my line?” His voice is warm and a little scratchy. 

God, Blaine loves him. 

“Yes, it is, Kurt,” Blaine answers evenly, a mischievous tilt to his chin. He kisses under Kurt’s jaw. “I didn’t say I’d be…in charge. I asked to take care of you.” 

“What did you have in mind?” Kurt asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s feeling…much too aroused for just a few kisses. His lips are buzzing. And he’s a little hard already; he can admit it. It’s been such a long time since they’ve been close like this….

Blaine noses around until he’s whispering in Kurt’s ear. “Well,” he answers, “I was thinking we’d make out for a little while longer—maybe I could get you get nice and hard in those beautifully tailored pants—and then we’d get into the backseat, and I’d unbutton them oh so carefully…and then I’d blow you any way you like. And I’d swallow your come and button you right back up, and we’d go to Santana’s, and no one would have to know.” His tongue flickers out to trace the shell of Kurt’s ear, and Kurt shivers. 

“What do you think?” Blaine whispers. 

“I think…” Kurt’s breath huffs out when Blaine licks in the groove behind his ear. “Oh, that feels so good. I think that sounds wonderful. Brave boy.” Blaine isn’t as reticent when the focus is on Kurt and what Blaine can do for him, rather than on what Blaine might want for himself. But that was still pretty impressive. Also hot. Blaine is trailing worshipful kisses up his neck; Kurt tilts his head regally to allow more of them. “But,” he says when Blaine gets to his jaw, “I also think that we should probably get out of my dad’s driveway before this gets any more suspicious.” 

Blaine groans, and licks around Kurt’s Adam’s apple in retribution, making him gasp. “Okay, so let’s drive somewhere less suspicious,” he says. 

Kurt hums deep in his chest, then pulls Blaine back by the hair, gently. “Or we could go to Santana’s before everyone is so drunk they can’t talk.” 

Blaine pouts. 

“Put that away,” Kurt says, poking at his lip with a finger and then kissing it into submission. He draws back with one last lick to Blaine’s soft bottom lip. “Love, I want you too. So much.” Another kiss. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” Another kiss. “But I think we should be with our friends now.” Kiss. “Because we only get so many nights like this.” Kiss. “Approximately one each.” Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

“All right,” Blaine answers, nuzzling into Kurt’s cheek. “I understand.” 

Kurt smiles fondly, drawing back to put the car in reverse. “I will fuck you until you can’t stand tomorrow, though, sweetheart,” he says in an overly casual tone, pulling onto the road. “You can suck my cock as much as you want then, okay?”

“Oh my god, don’t tease me, it’s been so long,” Blaine moans in the passenger seat, putting his face in his hands. 

Kurt gets that wicked look in his eye. 

Kurt spends the rest of the (blessedly short—Lima is not actually all that far from Lima Heights) ride to Santana’s with only one hand on the steering wheel. The other hand is occupied, first tracing Blaine’s inner thigh, then his rapidly filling cock, then the side of his sensitive throat. Blaine doesn’t even try to contain his moans, or his whining protests. But he lets Kurt do it; he sits on his own hands to hold himself back. 

By the time they arrive, Blaine is panting and hard, and Kurt has to give him a couple minutes in Santana’s driveway to calm down. He’s still flushed (and maybe his pants are still a little tight) when Kurt tugs him out of the car and up to the front door, but he figures that can be explained by the steamy night. 

And honestly, much as he’s trying not to think about it, half the people inside this house have already seen him balls deep in Blaine. He’s not over it—not even close—but it’s true. 

The rest of them can assume what they want if they see Blaine blushing a little. 

Kurt and Blaine don’t drop hands when they walk in.

*

“Never have I ever licked a cat.”

“Oh my god Puck, we are not twelve,” Santana drawls, reaching across their collective circle to smack his leg. 

So first things first: everyone is drunk. Everything smells like alcohol. Everybody’s in one big circle, half on the ground and half on various dragged over pieces of furniture. The lights are dim, and most of them have red tissue paper over them, casting the whole room in a vague reddish glow. Some sort of throbbing, bass-heavy, blatantly sexual music is playing because, well, it is Santana’s place. (The music is often interrupted by Pandora commercials, but still.) 

Earlier, there was dancing. At first it was silly dancing in a big group, all of them laughing and pushing at one another, Brittany pulling someone or other into some bouncy swing step every so often. Then they all broke off in pairs and threes, still silly and loud bumping into one another. And then Santana (being Santana) switched the music to whatever this is, and it got a little…sexy. Kurt caught a glimpse of Finn and Rachel making out. Luckily, he was quickly distracted—Blaine was dancing with him, and he kept pushing closer and closer, threading his fingers through Kurt’s beltloops, tugging him in in in, and it seemed like the room was getting hotter and hotter and Kurt wanted to devour him. 

And that was when Kurt spun away and sat, flushed with alcohol and lust, by the couch. At first he’d been very uncuddly (because he knew as soon as he touched Blaine he was going to tackle him to the floor and kiss him and strip him and—) But once Kurt shoved the blatant horniness down and accepted the drink that Blaine mixed for him, he started to relax, unspooling against Blaine’s side, watching more and more of their friends get tired of dancing and join them on the couches. 

Now that everybody has stopped dancing, it’s clear they’re at different stages of ‘drunk.’ Mike, for example, is loose-limbed but still pretty coordinated. Blaine is mostly just impressed that Mike walked all the way across the room without spilling whatever is in his margarita glass. Unsurprisingly, Puck is messy-drunk, laying on the floor, demanding that they all play party games. (“Guys— _guys_ —” he was begging five minutes ago. “I will light my nipple hair on fire rrrright now if you dare me to. … _Bros_ —” he made a pleading face at Santana, who mimed vomiting in return “—let’s _do_ this”). And Kurt and Blaine are leaning against one another on the floor just in front of the big squashy couch. Kurt is nursing a wine cooler, feeling peaceful and loose, warm and happy with Blaine snug under his arm.

Meanwhile, Blaine has stopped drinking because, well, honestly he’s just a bit of a horny drunk and Kurt smells so good and he keeps thinking about just getting his face between Kurt’s legs and smelling him—he smells so good and strong there, god—and maybe then he could lick a little…. And of course Kurt caught Blaine looking at him like Blaine just wanted to swallow him, so Kurt removed the drink from Blaine’s hand with raised eyebrows and a teasing little smirk. Blaine’s still pretty turned on now, half an hour later—Kurt is so warm and there against him—but mostly he’s just hazy and giggly and happy to be with all their crazy friends. 

“Fuck off Santana. Bet you’ve never licked a cat,” Puck is grumbling. Kurt and Blaine exchange a judgmental look and snort quietly in unison.

“Yeah, well I bet you’ve never licked pussy,” Santana snarls back from her seat on the floor just across from Kurt and Blaine. She sneaks her chin onto Brittany’s (very naked) shoulder, lips still curled up in disdain. 

“OHHH BURN,” Sam calls from the other couch. He offers Santana a high five, which Brittany accepts for her because Santana is too busy rolling her eyes.

(Brittany was already down to her underwear by the time Kurt and Blaine arrived a few hours ago, and Santana has to keep coaxing her back into her bra. Kurt thanks the nonexistent dwarf on the dark side of the moon that her panties have remained on.) 

“Let’s switch games,” Quinn declares from where she’s sprawled out with Mercedes on the couch behind Kurt and Blaine. Quinn’s voice sounds as authoritative as always—until Blaine lolls his head over to look at her, half-laying in Mercedes’s lap, eyes mostly closed, flailing one arm out to get attention and nearly smacking Kurt in the process. 

“Yeah,” Tina agrees. She and Mike are trying to stuff themselves into one big, squashy chair with moderate success—Tina’s a little too drunk to manage any sort of coordination. Puck tried to make Finn get in an armchair with him earlier, too, but Finn refused and now they’re both sulking, Finn in the armchair, Puck on the floor with Santana, Brittany, Kurt, and Blaine. Joe keeps wandering off playing with his dreds, but Blaine is pretty sure his dad is picking him up soon so he won’t be too tired for church in the morning. Artie is still trying to choose which couch to transfer himself to so he’ll stop rolling over people’s fingers. Rachel won’t let go of the microphone, so she’ll only come as close as the wire allows—just now she’s leaning over the back of the couch, playing with Quinn’s hair. 

But they’re pretty much in one very clumpy, very drunk circle. 

“Stop that,” Quinn snaps, slapping at Rachel’s hand. “Get in here, we’re playing Truth or Dare.” 

Rachel pouts, and goes to unplug the microphone so she can bring it with her, while Santana says “I thought I just said we _aren’t_ twelve, Fabray.” 

“You think this game is for preteens? How about you start, Señorita Fakeboobs? Truth. Or. Dare?”

(“How drunk _are_ you right now?” Mercedes whispers to Quinn, but Quinn waves her off, squinting intensely at Santana.) 

Santana kneels up, wobbling until Brittany steadies her, her hands honestly more on Santana’s ass than her hips. Santana, apparently oblivious, points at Quinn. “You’re on. Dare.” She sits back down, now in Brittany’s lap.

Rachel shoves her way onto the couch with Quinn and Mercedes, still carrying the microphone, whose disconnected wire trails uselessly over the arm of the couch. Quinn rolls her eyes at Rachel but scoots over before turning back to Santana. 

“Fake an orgasm,” Quinn says flatly, eyebrow raised. 

“Ooooooh, why?” Santana asks, her voice a touch raspier than usual. She lounges back in Brittany’s lap, rocking her hips a little. “You want to see me come, Quinnie?” She moans low, tilting her head back over Brittany’s shoulder. Brittany grins and ducks her head to lick at Santana’s throat. “I always knew you had a hidden dyke side,” Santana groans. “Could see it—” she gasps and arches a little “—every time you bitched us out during practice, fuck.” She’s breathing deeper now, legs spreading a little, hips twisting, hands sliding up her own inner thighs—Kurt can’t really decide whether to look away or not; Blaine licks his lips—but then it’s too late: Santana grins wickedly at Quinn, then arches back hard with a sharp gasp, head tipped over Brittany’s shoulder, hand coming up to tug at her own hair. Her legs quiver. 

Five seconds later she’s sitting up normally, back to Brittany’s chest. “And that’s the only time any of these boys have seen that,” she adds scornfully. As though faking an orgasm had been a perfectly normal thing to do. Kurt eyes her with fear and awe. 

Blaine can’t decide if he’s scarred or turned on. He pushes his nose against Kurt’s shoulder and inhales deeply—nope, turned on. Definitely turned on. 

“Not true,” Puck is protesting. “I mean, I watched Britt eat you out once.” Brittany nods eagerly, hand sneaking up Santana’s thigh, but Santana just takes Brittany’s hand in hers with one hand and flips Puck off with the other.

“All right, fine, who’s got a bottle to spin? Let’s get this _going_ ,” declares Santana. 

“This is gonna be interesting,” Kurt murmurs, nudging Blaine at his side. He reconsiders, adds: “Or possibly even more scarring than…” he raises his eyebrows at Blaine. 

Blaine nuzzles up further, nosing at Kurt’s sharp jaw where he smells so—so—Kurtlike. _So_ good. He wants to taste. He really, really wants to taste. He’s pretty sure Kurt wouldn’t be happy if he tasted. “Nah, it’ll be fun,” he says instead. 

“I think I should have stopped you drinking earlier than I did; you’re so touchy,” Kurt jokes, rubbing up and down Blaine’s arm. 

“ _Orrrr_ you could catch up with me,” Blaine answers, eyes glittering. 

“Hmmmm,” Kurt replies, noncommittal, trying to ignore the hot look on Blaine’s face but mostly failing. He’s aware that he’s blushing lightly. (That’ll pass as alcohol flush, though, he tells himself.) “Unlikely.” 

“ _Hummel!_ ” Kurt’s head snaps up to find the whole circle staring at them, and Santana about a foot from his face. …Maybe he’s more drunk than he thought. “I know you wanna suck his dick right now,” Santana continues, “but would you look at me when I’m talking to you?” 

Kurt opens his mouth to respond, but Santana cuts him off: “Okay, what’ll it be, baby gay, truth or dare?” 

He gapes for half a second, then snaps out of it. “You do _not_ get to call me baby gay,” he sasses. He almost z-snaps but resists the temptation. …Oh, yep, he is still definitely drunk. Oh dear. “I came out _two years_ before you, Satan.” 

“And yet I had gay sex _years_ before you, my sweet little dolphin,” she answers with a deceptively sweet grin. (“OHHHH!” calls Sam from the opposite couch. This time Santana accepts his high five with vigor while three of the others throw empty solo cups at him.) “Now, pick your poison.” 

_Well, this can’t end well,_ Kurt thinks. Pick his poison indeed. “Truth,” he decides, unconsciously hitching Blaine closer against his side. 

Santana points at him, her finger about an inch from his nose. He’s sort of tempted to snap at her fingers, but that would probably be bad. That would give her ideas. This is not a good time to give Santana ideas. “Are you, or are you not, a vampire fetishist, Kurt Hummel?”

“No,” he answers evenly. 

“Then why did Blaine Warber here have vampire neck bites before Nationals?” 

Rachel and Mercedes both turn to Kurt with raised eyebrows.

_Goddamn,_ Blaine thinks, ducking his face against Kurt’s ribs. _She does have sex radar. Or really good vision._

Kurt is a little less composed: _Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope nope nope._ “Only one question per round, baby gay,” he answers, eyebrow raising slowly. 

“Oh don’t give me that, that was a yes or no—”

“THE RULES ARE THE RULES!” Quinn pronounces, shooting up to a seated position and kneeing Rachel in the process. She puts her palm down on top of Kurt’s head dramatically. “Spin!” 

_Thank you, crazy Fabray_. No more truths for Kurt, he decides, at least not while anybody remembers this round. He eyes his friends, most of whom are still drinking. There’s hope yet that they’ll all black out and lose this entire memory, he tells himself. (And besides…that wasn’t that bad. Right? Definitely not compared to Santana faking an orgasm. He feels okay. He thinks.)

He spins. 

It lands on Rachel, who picks dare, tossing her hair over her shoulder and almost falling into Quinn’s lap when it throws her off balance. 

Kurt sits up straight and fixes Rachel with his most authoritative stare. She squirms. “I dare you, Rachel Berry, to not sing, chant, or hum at all, at any point, for the next twelve hours. Unless someone dares you to sing something.” 

Rachel pouts. “But—but Kurt, that’s not—” her face scrunches up; she doesn’t seem to be able to think of a reason this shouldn’t be allowed. “ _Kurt_ —”

“The rules are the rules!” Kurt insists, accepting a flailing high five from Quinn before slumping back down on Blaine. “Go! Spin!” 

Rachel manages to get off the couch and down to the bottle on the floor, barely. Her spin lands on Puck. 

“Truth? Or _dare_ ,” she says, injecting it with all the drama of _To be, or not to be?_ Kurt is reminded of Cooper’s ridiculous acting class. Blaine is as well, apparently, because he giggles and collapses against Kurt’s chest. Once he stops giggling, he just sort of nuzzles and rubs his cheek there. Kurt goes with it, petting at Blaine’s neck and back, until he remembers _where they are,_ at which point he quickly nudges Blaine back up to his shoulder. Blaine pouts and then nips behind his ear in retribution. Kurt can’t help but shudder lightly. He carefully does not look at Santana. Or any of the other boys. Or Blaine, because he wants to _jump him._

He’s starting to seriously question his decision to not get off before arriving at the party tonight. 

Puck has chosen truth; he yells “THE NIGHT IS YOUNG, BROSKIS” because a couple of the guys are ribbing him for taking the “weak choice.”

“Tell everyone what you most liked about me during our brief love affair, Noah,” Rachel says primly, sitting up straight and smoothing her skirt down over her knees. 

“Oh god, I need more alcohol for this game,” Kurt groans—but apparently not as quietly as he’d thought, because Santana flops across the circle, snatches his solo cup, produces a handle of vodka from underneath the couch behind her, and fills his cup until Kurt yanks it away in alarm. 

At which point Santana licks the spilled alcohol off Brittany’s bare thigh. Brittany makes a soft, satisfied noise in the back of her throat, rubbing an affectionate thumb over Santana’s cheek.

Kurt looks away. Down. His cup is now half full of straight vodka. 

It’s whipped cream flavored, according to the bottle, but still. Straight vodka. This is a bad plan, he acknowledges to himself.

Santana toasts him with her flask, and he rolls his eyes, giving into his grin; they each take a swig. It burns on the way down, but Kurt is _so_ ready for it to hit him. Preferably before Puck gets his shit together and answers Rachel. Kurt takes another sip before setting it within easy reach. 

“Ummm,” Puck says for the umpteenth time; Rachel prods him with the end of the bottle they’ve been using to spin. “Okay, okay, woman! All right!”

“Well?” says Rachel expectantly. 

“I liked how squirmy you’d get when we made out—I mean, because usually that’s a pretty good indicator of wanting the D, but—” Puck cuts off when Finn smacks the back of his head.

“That’s my fiancée you’re—you’re— _fantasizing_ about!” Finn barks. 

“Your fiancée is the one who asked!” Puck answers. “Sheesh, Hudson.” 

A moment of tense silence. Rachel and Puck are both pouting. Finn deflates. “Just spin,” he sighs, sinking back into the armchair. 

“All right all right!” Puck agrees. His first drunken attempt sends the bottle skidding under the couch, and as he goes to dig it out, Blaine pushes up his nose up along Kurt’s jaw again. 

“You like when I’m _squirmy_ too, don’t you?” he whispers in Kurt’s ear. 

Kurt raises an eyebrow at him, turned on despite himself, and sneaks the arm that’s currently slung around Blaine’s waist up so he can tug at the back of Blaine’s hair in warning. But Blaine only pushes up harder against his side, straining toward him. If they were alone, he would already be in Kurt’s lap—as it is, Kurt holds Blaine still by the neck of his Henley. 

Blaine gives in, relaxing back against Kurt, but insists: “But you _do,_ don’t you?” 

“Yes, of course I do,” Kurt answers quietly, settling Blaine back down with a few rubs down his arm. “You know, I took your drink away to prevent exactly this situation; I don’t know why you’re still so…so…” 

“Hot for you?” Blaine suggests quietly, eyes dark, sliding the back of his hand discreetly up the outside of Kurt’s closest leg. Kurt glares and wills himself to ignore the arousal pooling in his belly. And cock. Fuck. He shifts minutely. “Well, I always am,” Blaine continues. “But I miiiiight have maybe just had some of your vodka. Which you would already know if you’d kiss me. Because you’d taste it.”

“You—wh—?” Kurt picks up the solo cup, which is now significantly emptier. Like…maybe one shot’s worth? A shot and a half? How many shots can fit in half a solo cup? “Blaine,” he scolds. 

“ _You_ need alcohol to get through the game,” Blaine explains, just breathing into Kurt’s ear now. “ _I_ need alcohol to get through the night without…kneeling for you. Making you come. It’s been so long. And you smell _so good._ ” 

“I don’t really think you’re making it any easier on yourself,” Kurt whispers back. His hand comes up to tug Blaine’s hair, but he realizes that’s a bad idea if his goal is to not turn Blaine (or himself) on. He’s just moving the vodka further away from Blaine when Puck emerges from beneath the couch with a yell of triumph. 

“You do realize that we have like ten other empty bottles in this circle, right? That took like five minutes,” Artie complains, but Puck ignores him. He spins again with vigor; it lands on Mike. 

“Truth or dare, Mikeymike?” Puck asks, smiling widely

Mike tilts his head, looking down at happily drunk Tina, who’s sprawled comfortably in his lap. She shrugs, and he says “Truth—the night is young!” 

“That’s my man!” Puck announces, clambering across the circle to give Mike an uncoordinated high five. He settles back on his side, smirking a very Pucklike smirk. “Kinkiest shit you ever did, Mike Chang,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. Mike buries his face in his hands, laughing hard.

“Well, all right then, shall I get us drinks?” Kurt murmurs to Blaine, starting to get up. Blaine gives him a stern look and tugs him back down, pointing to the vodka at his side. Kurt sighs. That was the only excuse he could think of. “I suppose I was going to hear about it at some point,” he sighs. Blaine nods and sets his chin firmly back on Kurt’s shoulder. “This could take a turn for the worse rather quickly, you realize,” Kurt adds quietly. He takes a calming sip of vodka, but it settles hot in his gut. …Or maybe that’s from how Blaine is breathing on his throat.

“It’s _Mike_ ,” Blaine answers quietly. “It’s okay. This is good.” 

Mike emerges from his hands. “I walked right into that one, huh?” he gets out, chuckling. 

“Yeeees you did,” said Sam with relish. Artie nods vigorously, fistbumping Sam.

“Out with it, Changski.” Puck says. “There’s been too many hints.” 

“’Kay, little weirded out by how invested they are in Mike’s sex life,” observes a slightly more sober Quinn from behind Kurt and Blaine. 

“Yes! Thank you!” Kurt responds without thinking, spinning around to face her. She’s already flopped back into Mercedes’s legs face-first, though—perhaps less sober than he’s thought. When he turns back around, Santana is staring at him.

Then again, he’s directly across from her and she sometimes likes to stare just to freak people out, so. 

“Tell! Tell tell tell tell tell tell,” Artie chants, reaching over the arm of the couch to poke at Mike’s shoulder. 

“Okay, okay!” Mike says, slapping at Artie’s hands. “Um, I think probably the time Tina tied me to the bed and rode me? Also I had a—um, a cock ring on, so. So it, uh, it went on for a while.” 

“It went on for, like, seven orgasms,” Tina enthuses, stretching out in Mike’s lap, slurring slightly. “…six of them were mine.” 

Most of the circle is looking at Mike with expressions somewhere between confusion and awe. Rachel’s head is tilted almost completely sideways. Kurt and Blaine blush heavily. Blaine knows they’re thinking the same thing: they _really_ need to try prostate massaging—they’ve talked about it, they just never have the time. Blaine trails his hand up the outside of Kurt’s thigh again, slower this time, wondering if he could convince Kurt to wear a cock ring—maybe Blaine could ride him, tease him, see how long they could last before Kurt went mad with it and tore the ring off and flipped Blaine over and just _fucked_ him, used him, mindless with it….

“Six orgasms in a row would be _awesome_ ,” Rachel declares with a decisive nod, setting her head straight again. 

“You know what’s even better?” Brittany says, swaying forward. “Thirteen orgasms.” 

“Britt, you’ve only ever had like three at a time,” Santana says, petting Brittany’s hair. Blaine raises his eyebrows. Brittany catches his expression and nods enthusiastically at him. 

“But thirteen would be awesome,” she insists, her hand sliding up Santana’s shirt. “Thirteen is my favorite number.” 

“Aaaaall right, new goal,” Santana laughs, squeezing Brittany’s side affectionately. She stills Brittany’s hand just below her breast and tilts Brittany’s chin up for a deep kiss that all of the straight guys watch very, very closely. As soon as Santana notices, she extracts herself from Brittany’s mouth with a glare and snaps at them, “Spin, you pervs.” 

Mike cranes over Tina to send the bottle spinning on the floor. It slows to a stop on Quinn, who is peeking one eye out from Mercedes’s lap to watch the action. 

“Dare,” she declares immediately, sitting up so fast she almost falls off the couch. 

“Sloooow down,” Mercedes giggles as she catches her. 

Mike gives Quinn a considering look. “Kiss your favorite kisser in the room,” he decides on. 

“Mike—that’s nice. You are _so nice_ ,” Tina mumbles in his lap, coming up on her elbows to pull him into a deep kiss. 

Quinn sits back with a thoughtful _hmmmmm,_ eyes unfocused. Then, abruptly, she stands up, coming within a millimeter of crushing Kurt’s fingers. He holds up his hand to steady her, but she shakes him off to stalk across the circle, gaze finally locking on Puck. 

He smirks, saying, “Always knew you liked it, Fab—”

“Ah,” she tuts, cutting him off, one finger in the air. “No. No words. Just—” She kneels unsteadily in front of him, hands to his shoulders, then leans down to him in one swoop, locking his lips with hers. It’s a sweet kiss for about three seconds, and then Quinn grins and huffs a haughty little laugh against Puck’s mouth, eyes flickering open to give him a dark look. From there on out, it’s open and dirty, both their jaws working slowly as they lick into one another’s mouths. Quinn shuffles in until she’s up against Puck’s crossed legs, and she pulls at the back of his mohawk to bring him closer, and everyone watches as Puck’s free hand, which had been resting at the back of Quinn’s head, trails down her neck, around her shoulder, down her ribs (dangerously close to her breast, not that she seems to mind, gasping into his mouth), before coming to rest carefully at her hip. 

Quinn’s just starting to push even closer, basically crawling into his lap, when Santana reaches across the circle to smack Quinn on the ass, startling her out of the kiss. 

“Hey, Fabray, much as I’m liking the free show—” Santana starts; Artie nods in agreement, giving a few slow claps. 

Quinn flips Santana off over her shoulder, leaning back in to kiss Puck. But Puck leans back—a tease—and pushes gently at her hip, grinning at her cockily. “If I knew you liked it that much, Q—”

“Oh please,” she huffs, brushing his hand off. “We have perfect chemistry, you know that. How else do you think we ended up having sex months before my purity ball? I already had the dress and everything.” 

Puck squints at her. “But I have perfect chemistry with everyone.” 

Quinn huffs again, trying to flounce away but falling onto her butt instead. “No you don’t,” she grumbles, glaring. She spins the bottle before making her way slowly back to the couch, where Mercedes wraps her up in a hug. 

“That is possibly the most heterosexual… _action_ I have ever seen,” Kurt murmurs to Blaine, who perks up at his side. 

“No it isn’t, remember that time you walked in on Finn and Ra—” Blaine cuts off with a yelp when Kurt smacks his thigh. 

“I thought we said we would never mention that _ever_ ,” Kurt starts, growling under his breath, but Blaine suddenly perks up.

“Wait, does that mean you’ve seen _homo_ sexual action that goes _further_?” he whispers excitedly. “Because you said—you said _those_ movies—”

“I might have…partially revised my position…on _that_ , in the meantime,” Kurt whispers back, blushing. He takes a nice, moderate, reasonable drink of straight vodka, and focuses on the burn, which is getting more pleasurable every time he drinks, he swears. “But, mostly I was thinking—that time I fucked you in front of the mirror—” And wow, yeah, that definitely just came out of his mouth. Okay. 

And now Blaine is moaning. _Moaning._ Softly. In his ear. 

_Jesus._

“Oh no no don’t use that word right now, Kurt,” Blaine breathes, pressing up against Kurt’s side. “ _Fuck,_ ” he adds; Kurt can feel the hiss of the _f_ in his ear; he shivers. “I can’t, I just really want— _Kurt_ —”

“Not now, not—all right, settle down, little one,” Kurt murmurs back under the throbbing music. He rubs a hand up and down Blaine’s back, but Blaine just pushes into it like Kurt’s stroking his dick or something, so clearly that’s not helping. Kurt puts his arm back around Blaine instead, still and secure, his palm settled warm on Blaine’s waist. 

Blaine sighs, and Kurt is so hopelessly captivated by this idiot that he actually leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “Later,” he tells Blaine firmly, squeezing his side.

Blaine nods, then grins up at him through his eyelashes, slow and coy. He reaches across his own stomach to slide his fingertips slowly between Kurt’s fingers where they’re resting on Blaine’ss side, dragging and warm and sensual. 

Kurt inhales sharply and glares. Even the glare is admittedly more than a little heated, because Blaine knows exactly what that does to him, and this gnawing lust is not something he particularly wants to experience in a circle of their dozen closest friends. Blaine smiles sweetly, dragging his fingers back down between Kurt’s just as slowly. 

Kurt feels it, the heat, the tease of Blaine’s touch down the backs of his hands, over his forearms, around the backs of his arms, down his spine; the arousal settles hot and immovable in his gut. After a few passes, he actually has to fight to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head—Blaine’s fingers dragging warm and slow between his own feels that damn good. God, how can it be such a tease and feel so good at the same time? 

He looks away determinedly, realizing that they’ve missed a whole round. Artie is throwing a napkin at Puck, who spins for him. It lands on Santana—again. Kurt, forcing his thoughts away from the delectable boy beside him, wonders if her alleged Mexican third eye has anything to do with this and then frowns at himself. Perhaps he should slow down on the vodka, he thinks. 

Across the circle, Santana smiles broadly and says “Dare.” 

Artie steeples his fingers and considers her, head lolling to the side. “Pick one male in the circle, and make out with him,” he intones, looking down his nose. 

Well fuck. Kurt may have to reconsider his stance on the vodka. This is going to get messy. 

Santana’s expression turns murderous in half a second. “Are you _fucking kidding me right now,_ ” she snarls. Brittany pets Santana’s shoulder, but she’s frowning too. 

“The rules are the ru—”

“I WILL _CUT Y_ —” 

“Whatever, Blaine made out with Rachel that one time—” Artie is saying, flapping a hand; Blaine reaches behind Kurt to high five Rachel giddily, and Kurt snorts out a reluctant laugh “—it’s not like orientation—”

“That was completely diff—”

“It’s _truth or dare,_ Santana, it’s not supposed to be totally comfortab—” Artie insists, but Santana gets right up in his face, and he stops, drawing back. 

“What, you afraid I’m gonna kiss you?” she growls, teeth bared. She gets even closer, their noses almost touching. Artie shrinks in on himself. “ _Fuck. You._ ” 

Then she draws back, whips around with surprising balance, and kneel-walks across the circle. All eyes are on her; even Quinn has emerged from Mercedes’s lap to watch.

She stops in front of Kurt. 

Kurt’s brain has no words; it’s just sort of a _?!?!?!?!_

“Up for it, Hummel?” Santana practically snarls, hands on her hips. 

Her voice and her posture are harsh, but there’s something vulnerable in her face, Kurt thinks.

As much as Kurt doesn’t really want to, he can see her predicament, the politics of the whole thing—he heard about the puckheads’ moronic fuck-her-straight debacle at length from Rachel. He does _get_ it, but….

But it’s public kissing. And it’s _Santana_. 

Then again, if he refuses, Blaine would be the next logical option, and Blaine making out with someone else in a circle of his closest friends is _not_ an experience that Kurt wants to repeat. (Especially not at the level of touch-sensitive subby horny drunk that Blaine is currently experiencing.)

_…And,_ he reminds himself, he kind of owes Santana for the whole Nationals rooming thing. _Queer solidarity?_ he thinks. This is a really, _really_ weird way to show it. 

But still. Kurt sighs and raises up one finger in the universal sign for Wait one moment. “You okay with this, hon?” he asks Blaine. 

Blaine nuzzles up against his neck, and presses a kiss behind his ear. Kurt’s cock actually twitches in his pants. _Fuck._ He’s _still_ turned on. And drunk. He honestly almost laughs—there’s nothing much to do now but enjoy this entire ridiculous situation. And try not to humiliate himself. Santana had sworn to get him shitfaced, and here he is. 

Blaine draws back. “Go for it,” he grins. 

Kurt notices for the first time that the rest of the room is staring at the two of them in dumbstruck fascination. 

“I don’t even get how that would work though,” Puck mutters. 

Kurt makes a grossed out face at Puck, then turns to Santana. “Yeah, all right,” he tells her. “Solidarity,” he adds, and she looks at him confused and annoyed. “Your third nationality, Satan,” he sasses, and then she gets it, gives him a little half grin. He kind of wants to give her a fist bump but figures it would be sort of moot at this point. 

He sits up a little, takes a tiny, reasonable little bracing sip of vodka as Santana sits down on her heels. 

They sort of stare at one another for a second before both moving very decisively at the same time and basically just smacking their faces together. 

Kurt cracks up, and yes he is drunk, which is why he’s leaning forward and resting his forehead on Santana’s shoulder as he giggles madly and gasps for breath. He can hear a couple of titters from the rest of the circle as well, but he can’t really blame them. This is pretty ridiculous. “Oh my god,” he finally squeaks out through his laughter. 

Santana sighs. “Get up here, Hummel,” she demands, though there’s the barest edge of humor in her voice too. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, laughing through a few calming breaths. Maybe, he thinks, maybe it’ll help, make it easier, if he starts smaller, like—and before his sluggish impulse control can catch him, he’s kissing slowly up the side of Santana’s neck. 

“This is weirdly hot,” Rachel declares loudly, leaning over so that Quinn doesn’t block any of her view. 

But there’s no time to think more because Santana is tugging him up to her lips. The kiss is much smoother this time, if just as strange. Her mouth feels…not right. Her jaw is narrower than Blaine’s, her lips fuller, and mostly Kurt’s impression as they exchange increasingly hard close-mouthed kisses is that this is really really fucking weird and he’d much rather be kissing Blaine. 

It isn’t _bad,_ though, he decides. He’s not going to puke in her mouth or anything. Better not worry about it, and just kiss, since he can only really do one thing at a time right now. He lets his eyes relax, tilts his head further to the side, licks at her bottom lip. It tastes weird—lipglossy—but he pushes that aside too. She opens for him a bit, and kisses back, well, _aggressively,_ and using her tongue much differently than Blaine does—

And, automatically, he does what he does when Blaine gets too pushy: he threads a hand through the hair at the base of her skull and tugs her head back sharply, gentling the kiss for the briefest pause before digging his teeth gently into her bottom lip. A little warning. 

But before he can think twice, Santana pushes back in, kisses him even more aggressively until he’s sitting back on his haunches, hand now resting at the back of her neck—he’s completely thrown off kilter. And then, right in the middle of working her tongue into his idle mouth, Santana breaks the kiss entirely. 

Kurt untangles his hand from her hair and shakes his head a bit as he opens his eyes. Santana is staring at him, but he can’t quite parse her expression. 

“You’re lucky I like my hair being pulled, Hummel; that was risky,” she finally says. “Plus you of all people should know I’ve got razor blades in there.” 

Kurt laughs again, and raises his hand with a smile. She high fives him, a smile growing on her face. 

“We did pretty well for two deeply incompatible gays,” he declares as she settles back on her side of the circle with Brittany, but she just gives him a thumbs-up because her mouth is already occupied with Brittany’s mouth. 

Kurt tugs Blaine back against his side and takes a purifying sip of vodka. Lord. Never thought he’d kiss a girl again. 

“Had to get the boy germs off,” Santana says as she extricates herself from Brittany and spins the bottle. “The gay germs can stay,” she adds to Kurt with a smirk. 

“May I just repeat how weirdly hot that was?” Rachel chirps from the couch. 

“No, you may not,” Kurt answers. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you kiss anybody before, Kurt,” Mercedes says wonderingly. “Like, at any point.” 

“You have enough awesome jawline for like five hot guys,” Tina adds from the squashy chair. “Delicious. A-plus.”

“Tina speaks the truth,” Blaine declares. 

“Um, thanks, Tina,” Kurt says as Blaine presses a light kiss to the aforementioned jaw. Kurt swats at him half-heartedly. 

“What am I, the prop?” Santana scowls. She’s playing with Brittany’s hands, and Brittany’s smile could light up the whole town. “It was my dare,” Santana adds, grumbling, slurring a little.

“I literally cannot count how many people I’ve watched you make out with,” Quinn says. “I think we’re over it.” 

Puck is squinting at Santana. “You’re more forceful now,” he offers. 

“Uh, yeah, I don’t have to pretend to be a helpless needy girl so some macho boy can feel sexy,” Santana responds. 

“Is that why you used to do that like really chill I’m-hardly-even-kissing-you thing and then nearly bite my tongue off?” Puck asks, leaning forward. 

Santana rolls her eyes and doesn’t deign to answer. “Aretha, you’re up!”

“Oh! …Truth,” Mercedes answers, then laughs nervously, which sets Tina off laughing too. 

Santana eyes her carefully, and Mercedes does that drunken trying-to-calm-myself-down giggle-breathing thing that never works. “How far did you and Trouty Mouth over here get last summer?” Santana finally demands. 

Mercedes looks down at her lap, puts her palms to her hot cheeks. “Oh,” she says, still giggling a little bit. “Well…” she trails off and glances across the circle at Sam, who shrugs and takes a swig of his beer, looking a bit forlorn. 

“Hands. Hand stuff,” Mercedes answers, still looking at Sam. Kurt sits up straighter, surprised. Blaine, loose and warm, sways further into his side. 

“That could mean literally anything. For example, I just stroked sweet Porcelain’s cheek with my hand,” Santana says. Mercedes giver her a helpless look. “Orgasms?” Santana presses. 

“Yep,” Mercedes answers with a decisive nod. Then she breaks out in a wide smile.

Kurt slaps Mercedes’s foot in admonishment—“I had no idea!”—and then pats her leg. “Congratulations,” he says, smiling, as a much drunker Quinn looks up at Mercedes, also surprised. Then Quinn smiles slowly too, a big happy smile. “Y’never told me!” she murmurs. She pokes Mercedes in the belly and then kisses the nearest bit of her, which is her knee. 

“Because it’s private!” Mercedes insists to both of them.

Puck reaches one fist over to the couch without looking at Sam. Sam fistbumps him with dignity. 

Santana is smiling, saying “Ahhh, all grown up!” She stumbles over to give Mercedes a hug. “Good, good. Very good. Orgasms for all. Everyone should be having orgasms. Now spin.” 

Mercedes spins—and it lands on Santana, for about the millionth time, Kurt thinks. 

She rolls her head back and groans “What the _fuuuuck,_ ” but continues, “Truth. Just lay some truth on me. No more dares. I refuse to touch another man. Not even Lady Hummel.” And then she raises an eyebrow at him. Kurt’s not sure what that’s about. He’s a little busy nudging Blaine’s nose (and lips?-- _god_ ) away from the base of his neck. 

“I wouldn’t have made you touch a man,” Mercedes says, wounded, but Santana waves her off. “Well...what I really wanna know is what are you most scared about, now that we’ve graduated?”

Santana’s grin fades; Kurt can tell she’s taken aback. Kurt is too, but mostly he’s curious. Blaine’s fingers have gone still where they had been threading in and out of Kurt’s (which was seriously driving Kurt half crazy). Kurt can tell he’s listening closely as well. 

Santana frowns, considering. They all watch as she takes a drink of the vodka straight from the bottle, and scrunches her face up as she swallows. She sighs melodramatically, pauses, then speaks. “I guess…whatever, I guess just that I’ll never have this again,” she says, gesturing around at them all. “I’ve never really had this—like, a really tight group of friends who actually care about each other. People who’ll support me, people who get me. More or less. And Brittany….” She squeezes Brittany’s hand. “I just feel like I’m where I should be.” She sips thoughtfully from her flask. “Yeah. Losing you guys. That is some scary shit.” 

Brittany leans over and kisses Santana gently, while Blaine smiles the openest, most puppyish, drunkest smile Kurt’s ever seen. Sam leans down from the couch behind them and bear-hugs both girls around the shoulders. “Gross,” Santana groans, now scrunched up cheek to cheek with Brittany, “I can smell your beer breath, Sam.” But she’s laughing. 

Blaine scoots over the circle to curl up on her unoccupied side, and Finn reaches over to put a hand on her arm, and before they know it the whole damn club has pretty much piled on top of Santana. She sniffs thickly and drunkenly stage-whispers “Fuck you guys,” with more affection than most people pull off in an ‘I love you.’ A couple people giggle, and then Santana snaps, still sounding slightly choked up, “All right, all right, enough with that crap, I am not hosting a love orgy here, get off me.” Everybody laughs and clamors back to their previous seats, except Puck, who claims the armchair before Finn can get to it. And Tina is straddling Mike now, but that’s not really unusual. 

“Yeah, okay, now somebody in this family better hand me the goddamn bottle,” Santana says. “I _said_ we were gonna play the grownup fucking version of this goddamn game, not the lovey dovey one.” Kurt rolls his eyes and steels himself—Santana is about to take this deep, deep into the gutter. He can feel it. 

She spins. 

It lands on Blaine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	13. Horny little lovebirds

Kurt’s heart might actually skip a beat. 

“Truth or dare, Boy Warbler?” Santana asks, smirking.

“Truth,” Blaine chirps, apparently missing Kurt’s panic entirely. “I don’t want to kiss other people. Or fake an orgasm,” he adds, tipping his head onto Kurt’s shoulder.

“Well aren’t you just the most innocent little ray of sunshine, oh most wasted gay,” Santana mutters. Blaine just smiles sweetly. 

Puck snorts so hard that he almost tips over. Finn smacks him then, and he buries his face in his knees to hide his own drunken laughter. Blaine glances over at them; Kurt, for his part, is busy glaring at Santana. 

But then he realizes he’s glaring because Blaine is not innocent, and most definitely not Santana’s. …And then he stops entirely because he really cannot say either of those things to her. 

Santana sighs, staring at Blaine. “Well, Warbler, since you refuse to walk on the wild side—” Artie giggles nervously and Mike shoves him lightly, with a warning look “—and you’re such a fucking nice, boring little nugget that I don’t have any real dirt on you, let’s return to the one interesting thing you’ve ever done.” 

“What did I do?” Blaine asks, frowning a little now, noticing Kurt tense up beside him. He has a feeling that anything Santana would consider interesting isn’t good. But it wasn’t like she was ever involved with the Sex Investigation Squad insanity—if she had been, they’d already know. And that one morning at Nationals wasn’t that interesting, just a little awkward…. 

“You came to glee practice literally covered in bite marks, hon,” Santana replies, fake-sweet. “We’ve been over this. Now, how about you share with the class how that came about?”

Kurt is very aware of all the other girls turning to stare at them. The guys, too, but less openly. Blaine has gone still against Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt wills him to not look up to check in with Kurt, because that would imply so much, wouldn’t it? Or maybe it wouldn’t; maybe people who don’t do what they do wouldn’t read so much into a little gesture like that? But wait, Tina would totally notice—if she’s even awake? She hasn’t moved in Mike’s lap for at least five minutes…. 

“Um,” Blaine starts, startling Kurt out of his thoughts. “Well,” he tries again. Kurt rubs his thumb up and down Blaine’s waist, trying for reassurance. This isn’t that bad, Kurt tells himself. And everyone is drunk and will probably forget anyway, right? Hopefully? Probably? Kurt takes a bracing swig of vodka. 

At which point Kurt realizes that Blaine is really _quite_ drunk (even more so than Kurt, and Kurt is really quite drunk himself) and Kurt has no idea what he’s about to say. 

Or in how much detail. 

“Well, I guess—I like that,” Blaine finally produces. Short and sweet. Kurt scritches at the curve of Blaine’s waist in approval. 

“I’m vetoing that as an answer; that was not an answer,” Santana drawls, rolling her eyes. 

Blaine heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes sassily, which sends Rachel into a giggle fit. 

“I like being bitten and Kurt likes biting me, which is nice,” Blaine amends. 

All the girls have now turned to stare at them. Kurt takes another, much smaller sip of vodka. It burns down his throat and back up the back of his neck. 

Santana just raises her eyebrows, and to Kurt’s dismay Blaine takes the prompting automatically, while Kurt’s still swallowing his drink: “I mean, usually we’re careful to keep it under my clothes, but obviously we slipped up that time.” 

Santana’s eyebrows are now nearing her hairline. “ _That_ time, huh? How often do you indulge this little vampire fetish?”

“’s not a vampire fetish!” Kurt bursts in, feeling his face go red. Rachel and Mercedes burst into giggles again. 

“Oooooh, is it a werewolf fetish? Do you call Blaine ‘Jacob’?” Rachel squeals, shrinking back on the couch when Kurt reaches over to smack at her leg. 

“Vampires freak Kurt out; it’s totally not about vampires. Or werewolves,” Blaine clarifies, nodding at Santana. At that point, Kurt claps a hand over his mouth. No telling how many of these questions Blaine will answer otherwise. 

“Nope,” Kurt sings in Blaine’s ear. “Nope, no no no. No more.” Blaine kisses his palm, warm and soft and tempting. Of course. Kurt continues doggedly: “ _One_ question per round, Satan.” He gently removes his hand from Blaine’s face and shoots him a half-hearted glare, which Blaine meets with good cheer.

“I clearly need to get you way drunker,” Santana mutters, rolling her eyes. “Fine, then. Spin, Peacock.” 

Blaine spins obediently and gets Rachel. 

“Truth,” she declares immediately. “I have seen the deep and tragic risks of choosing ‘dare,’ including but not limited to a ban on my most precious _voice_ —”

Mercedes reaches over to pat her knee and almost tips over on Quinn in the process. “We get it, Rachel,” she says. “You can sing again in the morning, it’s okay.” 

Blaine is considering Rachel, and she bounces nervously under the scrutiny. Santana mock-yawns obnoxiously after a couple moments of silence, and Blaine hums in protest. “I’m veeery drunk and my brain is slow,” he informs her. (Kurt watches him blink slowly. It’s weirdly erotic. There’s something about his delicate eyelashes…or perhaps it’s about how dilated his pupils are….) “But if you insist—all I could come up with is, Rachel, what would you do with your life if you couldn’t sing anymore?” 

Kurt turns to Blaine in horror as Rachel’s eyes widen and she rockets back in her seat. 

“This is cruelty!” Rachel exclaims, one arm shooting up, finger pointed to the ceiling. 

Kurt recovers as quickly as he can under the circumstances. “Okay, ‘s not the happiest question. But you must’ve thought about it before, Rach. Come on.” 

“I thought you of all people would understand—!” she gasps.

“It’s just a game,” Kurt answers, rolling his head back to look at her. “You’re not actually going to lose your voice.”

“But I _could_ —I—” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, her nose inches from Kurt’s. “It could be just like Julie Andrews.” 

“Rachel, she was like— _sixty_ —”

“But it could happen!” she wails. 

“Okay, Berry, cool it,” Santana snaps. “Just answer it and let’s move this on. God, trust Little Mr. Sunshine over here to bring us right back down to a G rating after all my hard work. I demand filthy sex questions after this. You hear that, Berry? You better give me _filthy sex questions_.” Puck claps in approval. 

Rachel glares hard, the way only Rachel can. Then she shakes her hair back defiantly and says “Fine. I would…I would probably work for animal rights. Or gay rights. Though how I would do that _without contributing my voice_ —”

Quinn pets Rachel’s arm and hands her the bottle. Rachel sighs heavily, but spins it. 

It doesn’t even go a full revolution before it lands on Kurt. 

Rachel gets that evil glint in her eye. 

Kurt’s eyes widen in alarm. “Rachel,” he begins, his tone placating. 

“Ah-ah,” she cuts him off, tilting her chin up and tapping it thoughtfully with the defunct mic. “Truth or dare— _voice-stealer._ ” 

“Rachel, I didn’t steal your voi—”

Rachel leans forward, bracing herself on Quinn’s thigh. Quinn’s face emerges from Mercedes’ lap; she stares at Rachel’s hand quizzically. 

Rachel extends the hand holding the mic to just in front of Kurt’s face; Kurt goes cross-eyed trying to follow it. “Truth”—Rachel taps his nose with the mic—“or”— _tap_ —“dare”— _tap._

Well. Truth clearly leads to madness and exposure. Which leaves only… “Dare,” he answers. 

Rachel—animal sweaters Rachel, sad clown hooker Rachel—won’t come up with anything too horrifying, Kurt reassures himself.

She’ll probably make him imitate Barbara Steisand terribly or sing a Christmas carol two octaves up or something. Kurt’s pride can take that. 

Rachel sits back, swaying in a mockery of her usual primness, cradling the mic. 

“I think you should demonstrate how _exactly_ Blaine ended up covered in vampire bites, Kurt.” 

Kurt’s eyes widen in alarm. “Are you kidding me?” he asks, but it comes out almost a squeak. He hiccups and shoots a glare in the direction of his nearly empty cup of vodka. Santana hoots, tipping her head back to cackle. “ _That’s_ what I’m _talking_ about!” she cries. “Need to get you drunk more often, Berry.” Kurt watches her and Rachel high-five across the circle. Tina starts giggling too, which sets Mercedes off again. 

Kurt opens and closes his mouth a few times, but nothing makes it out of his mouth except “That’s—private!” 

“Yeah, and so was my virginity until ten minutes ago, sweetie,” giggles Mercedes behind him. She ruffles his hair and gives him an expectant smile when he whips around. 

Kurt presses his lips together and turns to Blaine. 

Blaine is sucking on his bottom lip, wondering at the arousal pooling in his gut. It’s a strange mix of anticipation and discomfort. He glances around the circle to see how the Squad is acting. They’re suspiciously straight-faced, except Mike whose mouth has twisted into a slight frown. 

Blaine kind of just wants to lay down and let Kurt do whatever he wants to him. He doesn’t want to think about any of the rest of them. He nuzzles his face into Kurt’s shoulder. God, he smells _so good_ —

“Stop with the Victorian horror act, Porcelain,” Santana drawls when she cools down; Kurt’s eyes snap to her. “I just had to make out with a boy. Hell, _you_ just had to make out with _me_. This is nothing. Don’t give me this shit.” 

Kurt makes an ugly face at her. He’s not sure—well, he needs to check with Blaine, regardless of what they do—but first, he needs to take stock of himself. He sways a little as Blaine sits up, taking his weight off Kurt’s side. Kurt feels unsteady. He feels—looking at Blaine—undeniably warm. A little turned on, honestly. Mostly, in love. It’s there, running just under the surface of all the uncertainty and tension. Kurt rubs one hand down Blaine’s warm arm, the other hand through his own graduation tassel, which is affixed to his belt loop. 

He searches for fear and shame. He doesn’t find any. 

Frustration, defiance, yes. 

Love, care, desire, arousal, freedom, yes, yes, yes, yes. 

(Vodka, too. There is definitely vodka in him. A lot of vodka.) 

Kurt makes himself focus, first on his hand still stroking Blaine’s arm, then on Blaine’s face. “What do you think of this, sweetheart?” he murmurs, quiet enough under the music that the others probably can’t make out what he’s saying. 

Blaine looks into Kurt’s eyes for a few seconds—Kurt can vaguely hear Santana gagging in the background—then grins, scoots around to face Kurt, draws Kurt’s hand up to his own cheek. 

“We say they can’t touch us,” Blaine murmurs. He nuzzles against Kurt’s palm, then kisses its center, sending all of Kurt’s nerves buzzing again. 

“That’s right, love,” Kurt responds, letting Blaine kiss at his hand, waiting.

“Kurt,” Blaine finally whispers, half his face buried in Kurt’s palm, leaning closer and closer. “That night…you told me not to be ashamed. And I have been. I didn’t want to be—god—but I am. But—Kurt, I don’t want to be ashamed anymore.” He draws back far enough to look into Kurt’s eyes, breathing against his lips, “I won’t be ashamed of wanting you, and I won’t be ashamed of the way I want you.”

Kurt’s heart is racing. He’s half-hard in his pants. Fuck. “And how is it that you want me, sweetheart?” he breathes. 

“All night, all I’ve wanted…I just want you to touch me….” 

Blaine wobbles up to his knees so he can slide up closer to Kurt, can tuck his face right up against Kurt’s ear. 

“… _Sir_ ,” he breathes into Kurt’s ear. 

Kurt might groan. Very softly. In a dignified fashion. 

“Do you want that?” Blaine asks, drawing back slightly, his eyes flicking from Kurt’s eyes to his lips. His pupils are so wide. 

Kurt smiles, and slowly threads his hand through Blaine’s hair. Everything feels dizzy except for Blaine warm and solid under his hands. “It’s all I’ve wanted for weeks,” Kurt whispers. “Hardly a moment alone. Feel like I’m starving for you.” He strokes his fingers over the side of Blaine’s throat. “Sick of caring about what they think. Done with it. Screw them. You’re right. God, I love you.”

Blaine grins very slowly, almost mischievously; he leans their foreheads together. “So _touch me,_ ” he breathes against Kurt’s lips. 

Kurt nods, just barely. He barely has to move to press a short, sweet kiss to Blaine’s lips. In front of all their friends. A little test.

He feels completely fine. Maybe because they’re all friends, in the end. Maybe because half of them have already seen way too much, and this is just nothing in comparison. Maybe because all Kurt has been able to think about anyone in this town today is _fuck them fuck them I’m done with worrying about this I am_ free. Maybe because Blaine has been driving him crazy with want all night, all day, all week, all year, fuck. Maybe because this mess has forced Kurt draw a little closer to fully owning his own desires. Maybe because Kurt’s love and lust for Blaine at this one perfect moment don’t leave room for much else. 

Kurt pulls back. Blaine’s eyes are only half open, fixed to Kurt’s lips as though hypnotized. Kurt tears his own gaze away from Blaine for just a few seconds and takes in the room at large. 

They’re all watching, more or less interestedly. Rachel is sitting forward, flushed, face propped neatly between her fists. Mercedes’s hands are folded primly in her lap. Brittany is looking on with open curiosity, playing with Santana’s hands; Santana is somewhere between smirking and smiling. Puck is squinting…he looks almost…studious? Finn is watching literally from between his fingers (in which case, Kurt has no idea how he got through the spying fiasco, because this is _nothing_ compared to that). Tina and Mike are grinning very widely and drunkenly at them. They’re not actually holding hands, Kurt notes: Tina is holding Mike’s wrists. Kurt really likes that. It’s like they’re in on the joke. On the same team. It’s sort of nice. He smiles back at them faintly, then refocuses completely on Blaine. 

Blaine, as always, is sweet and open and endlessly tempting. Kurt quickly decides that, if this is happening, he does not want to try to keep both of them upright during it—because god knows Blaine will go limp, and Kurt is too drunk to manage both their weights gracefully. He guides Blaine down to the floor on his back. By the time Blaine’s settled on the carpet in the middle of the circle, his face has gone all soft, and his pupils have eaten away all but a tiny ring of golden iris, which makes Kurt’s pulse throb a little harder in his throat and arms and cock. 

Everyone cheers at the repositioning—Santana whoops, and Kurt thinks that’s Mercedes clapping, but he can hardly hear them. He’s completely attuned to Blaine. Blaine’s arms lift an inch at his sides, then drop back into place; Kurt recognizes Blaine’s usual impulse to put his own arms over his head, to stretch out for Kurt, put himself on display, offer his submission like a particularly well-packaged gift. Now, Kurt nods in approval, leaning down cheek to cheek with Blaine; he touches each of Blaine’s arms lightly. Putting them above his head is too much for here; Blaine was right to leave them by his side. “Good boy,” he praises very very quietly in Blaine’s ear. Blaine whimpers and presses his cheek to Kurt’s. 

Kurt smiles wickedly, and shifts over to kiss his parted lips, keeping their bodies carefully apart. 

Blaine tastes like whipped cream vodka and Kahlua and wet and Blaine. He tastes so so good, and Kurt is lost immediately, licking at his mouth hungrily, wanting more, wanting to grab and press and grind against him—but he gluts himself on Blaine’s mouth alone instead. Blaine kisses Kurt back languidly, pliably, sucking at Kurt’s lips and tongue, falling back limply to the carpet when Kurt pushes back or nips or sucks in return. 

After a whole night (and a whole day beforehand, and honestly what _feels_ like weeks before that) of trying to avoid contact, of backing off, cooling down, it’s such a relief for Kurt to shove the carefulness and self-consciousness off a metaphorical cliff and just _touch_ his boyfriend. He runs his hands up and down Blaine’s arms, runs his fingers reverently over Blaine’s face, then finally starts to brush his fingertips up and down Blaine’s throat, teasing him, warming him up. When Blaine is sufficiently teased—wriggling a little, tearing air from Kurt’s mouth as he pants, arching his throat into Kurt’s hands—then Kurt sucks Blaine’s lush, swollen lower lip into his mouth one last time and draws their lips apart. 

He runs his nose up the line of Blaine’s throat, then behind Blaine’s ear. He licks at the hinge of his jaw. “Still okay?” he whispers. 

“Mmmmmm,” Blaine replies. 

“Because you’re about to get very, very turned on, sweetheart,” Kurt coos into his ear. “And no relief, none at all, mmmm. Poor thing.” He takes Blaine’s earlobe into his mouth and sucks. “How does that sound?” 

Blaine’s breath leaves him shakily, he lifts one arm to take Kurt’s free hand in his own and rests them together on his heart. “Kurt, yes,” he murmurs. 

Kurt groans oh so very quietly into Blaine’s ear, then immediately digs his teeth in just behind Blaine’s ear. Blaine whines, audibly, and Kurt can hear Mike and Tina applauding and laughing in unison, cheering them on. 

“Oh sweetie,” Kurt murmurs, “you can take more than that, can’t you?” 

“Yes,” Blaine gasps as Kurt sucks at the mark he’d just teethed into Blaine’s skin. 

“You sure, little one?” Kurt breathes into Blaine’s ear. He sucks a little lower now, in the soft flesh behind the hinge of Blaine’s jaw. He lets his teeth scrape, but doesn’t bite yet. 

“Oh!” Blaine gasps. “Yes.” He definitely is completely hard now and vaguely hopes that Kurt’s body is shielding enough of him that it’s not obvious. 

Kurt chuckles into Blaine’s skin, sucks until he draws up a pretty reddening mark, then bites down—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough that Blaine moans fully for the first time, shivering with lust and arching at his shoulders to push harder against Kurt’s mouth. 

“Mmmm,” Kurt responds, drawing back, rubbing his wet lips over and over and over the mark. 

“Are you going to be a good boy and stay still for me?” he breathes into Blaine’s ear.

Blaine slowly relaxes so that he’s laying flat again, still shivering when Kurt’s lips tease over the new bite. 

“Yes, Kurt,” he breathes. 

Kurt smiles. 

Kurt allows himself a little looser reign, then. He does pay close attention to Blaine’s moans and whines, his quickening breath, his heart pounding just under the thin skin at his throat and under their joined hands. (In fact, he pays such close attention to Blaine’s increasing desperation that he feels his own skin heating up like a fever, feels himself become achingly hard in his pants.) But he lets himself play, trusting Blaine to slow him down if needed. He nips and laves and bites and sucks all over Blaine’s throat, sometimes quick, sometimes torturously slow, winding Blaine up and up and up until he can’t help but arch slightly off the ground, and then winding him back down until his breathing settles back to deep, even pants. 

It’s not too long before Kurt comes up on his elbows to observe his handiwork. There are four big marks—behind Blaine’s ear, at the hinge of his jaw, one at his pulse point, and one just above his collarbone. There are littler ones too—nips, teasing hickeys with no bite to them—all over. That entire side of Blaine’s throat is slick and wet and, well, marked up. Kurt lets himself drink it all in, resisting the very strong urge to lay back down on his boyfriend, to grind against him and hold him still and make them come, to mark Blaine in quite a different way….

A low whistle breaks Kurt out of his fantasy, and he sits up a little more, putting one calming hand on Blaine’s cheek and keeping the other joined with Blaine’s. 

Santana—the whistler, of course—starts a slow clap, which the others join. (Mike and Tina ignore the slowness and just go for crazy applause, smiling widely.) “Good show, Hummel. Good show.” 

“I understand why Finn sometimes comes in his pants now,” Brittany announces. 

“Me too,” Rachel says, licking her lips. 

“Hey!” Finn frowns, as Santana turns to Brittany in concern. “Britt, you’re not even wearing pants,” she starts—and that’s Kurt’s cue to tune out the five conversations now happening around them. He turns his attention back to Blaine. 

He presses a light kiss to Blaine’s lips. “How are you, honey?”

“Mmmm,” Blaine rumbles slowly, a smile spreading slowly. His eyes flicker open. “Green.” 

Kurt raises an eyebrow, his eyes and smile gentle. 

“Very good,” Blaine amends. 

Kurt kisses his smile. “I’m so glad. Me too. Let’s sit up, shall we?” 

“Yes, Kurt,” Blaine answers. 

Kurt sits them both up and settles himself back against the couch where he’d been earlier. Before Blaine can sit beside him again, he tugs Blaine in to sit between his outstretched legs. Blaine makes the most ridiculously happy face, as though Kurt had just given him a puppy. Kurt feels as though his heart just grew three sizes. He rolls his eyes, trying at nonchalance because he doesn’t want to completely melt in front of their audience, and pulls Blaine back to rest against his chest. “Calm down, lovely,” he whispers. He wraps his arms tight around Blaine’s torso, one over his stomach and one over the bottom of his ribs. 

Blaine, undeterred, wriggles back and nuzzles his face into Kurt’s shoulder. “So so happy, sir,” he mumbles. He draws his legs up in front of him to hide his lingering hard-on. 

“Good, because _this_ —” Kurt squeezes Blaine hard “—is your reward for being very, very good for me tonight.” 

Blaine hums happily, going lax against Kurt’s front, and Kurt wants little more than to bury his face in Blaine’s hair and hold him forever. It would also be great, Kurt thinks, if he could grind against Blaine’s ass and hear Blaine whimper and get himself off, but Kurt’s not going to think about that right now because they’re in public. He’s not going to think about it. At all. 

“All right, you horny little lovebirds, spin!” says Santana, thrusting the bottle at Kurt and breaking him out of his happy bubble. 

Kurt spins, and sighs in relief when it lands on Quinn. He’s not sure he can take any more fraught exchanges with Santana or Rachel tonight. He’s hardly even paying attention when he picks something for Quinn to do, and after that he tunes out entirely. He rests his cheek against Blaine’s hair and lets his eyes blink shut. Blaine sighs contentedly and snuggles back against Kurt’s chest. 

The game continues on for another half an hour or so, but luckily neither of them are chosen. (The one time the bottle comes close, Kurt insists that it’s pointing closer to Mercedes behind him anyway, and she mercifully agrees.) The next things that Kurt and Blaine are really aware of are the lights flipping off and Santana dragging a bunch of blankets out of a drawer. A few people are going off to pass out in Santana’s bedroom, but mostly everybody is settling down to sleep in their little circle. Mercedes has joined Kurt and Blaine on the floor, curled away from them a few feet off; Rachel and Quinn are squeezed together on the couch. 

Blaine whines happily and unceremoniously tips himself and Kurt over on the floor, yanking on the blanket that Santana flings in their direction. Kurt grumbles a bit to himself, snatches up two empty solo cups, and stands up, head spinning a little. He stumbles his way to the bathroom sink and fills the cups with water, then makes his way back to the main room. Everyone seems dead asleep, including Blaine, curled close on his side. 

Kurt kneels down and kisses him awake. “Drink,” Kurt murmurs, propping Blaine’s head up. Blaine swallows half his cup obediently, eyes closed. Kurt hardly finishes his own water off before Blaine tugs Kurt down on top of him, flinging the blanket over both of them. 

“Sleep,” Blaine mumbles, completely melting now that Kurt’s weight is on him. Kurt buries his face in Blaine’s throat and inhales happily. A weird day. A perfect day. Kurt is utterly content. Blaine shifts a little under him, legs spreading, beginning to starfish the way he often does in sleep. 

This puts one of Kurt’s legs right up against Blaine’s half-hard dick, and slots Kurt’s own cock in the muscular groove of Blaine’s hip.

Blaine moans under him, half-awake as he grinds up against Kurt’s leg, and Kurt’s breath shudders out of him all at once. Kurt rocks down—god, _fuck,_ they can’t, they really really can’t, but it feels _so_ good. The entire day has been one long tease, and he just _wants_ —his mouth goes wet and opens against Blaine’s throat, and Blaine is already gasping softly, legs locked around Kurt’s thigh. 

“Blaine, behave,” Kurt gasps into Blaine’s ear, trying to resist Blaine’s loose rocking under him. 

“ _You_ behave,” Blaine replies, but he goes still under Kurt. Now that neither of them is moving, Kurt can feel Blaine’s dick literally throbbing against his thigh. _Fuck_. 

Kurt props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Blaine’s face. Blaine’s eyes are open to slits, his lips just slightly open, wet and full. 

Kurt wants to flip Blaine over on his stomach. And tie Blaine’s wrists together over his head and then tie them to the couch leg so he can’t do anything. And then he’d lube up Blaine’s crack, and just lay on him and fuck between his cheeks until he made himself come all over Blaine’s back. Blaine’s cock would be rubbing against the carpeting, too rough, but Blaine would be so desperate that he’d come all over everything anyway, messy and wild and whining and gone. 

The image is intoxicating. Kurt can’t get control of his breathing. 

“You okay?” Blaine breathes, eyelashes fluttering. 

Kurt collapses back down on top of him, nestles his lips right under Blaine’s ear. “God, I just want you. I want you so much right now,” he breathes. 

“Yeah, I get that,” Blaine whispers. His hips grind against Kurt’s pointedly, and Kurt’s eyes literally roll back in his head, his jaw goes loose—he wants to bite, god, wants to _fuck Blaine up_ —

Blaine’s hands smooth down Kurt’s back and back up, slowly. “Breathe,” he whispers. “Breathe.” 

Kurt breathes. He doesn’t move. They are both so fucking hard. 

“You told me in the car to wait until tomorrow,” Blaine whispers. Kurt nods, hardly able to breathe because the air around them has gone so hot and thick. “We can’t drive right now; we can’t leave,” Blaine adds. When Kurt doesn’t answer, he continues, “So…we can either go out into your car and—do whatever it is you need to do. Right now. Or we can wait.” 

Blaine’s precome has soaked through his pants. And through Kurt’s pants. Kurt can feel the damp heat on his leg. There’s this visceral, muscular imperative down Kurt’s back, along the insides of his thighs, in his cock, to shove—to fuck—down against Blaine. He’s only ever felt like this while they’re fucking. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He breathes in his own breath and Blaine’s, and their sweat. 

“I can’t do what I need to do to you in my car,” Kurt finally rasps. He can hear Blaine’s breath shuddering out of him slowly. He’s so wet and so hard against Kurt’s thigh. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he whimpers. “Kurt, please—”

Kurt takes a deep breath and shoves himself away, off Blaine, taking most of the blanket with him. Blaine’s eyes follow him, pupils blown. His pants are tented obscenely. Kurt’s mouth waters again just looking at him. 

“Turn over on your side,” Kurt whispers. “And close your eyes.” 

Blaine holds his gaze for a few seconds, and then he turns away. Kurt stands and drapes the blanket over Blaine. He glances around the room as he makes his way out, but no one is shifting or sitting up. Thank god. 

Kurt goes to the bathroom on the first floor—no one should be on the first floor, unless Brittany decided to sleep in the laundry room again. He locks the door and turns on the faucet for white noise and wraps his own arm up around his mouth and bites into the crook of his elbow to muffle his moans and calm the demand in his jaw, and he thrusts into his own hand five, six times and comes his fucking brains out. 

He cleans up methodically. Washes his hands with cold water. Washes his face with cold water. Runs cold water over his hands and arms until his breathing has evened out and his temperature comes down. He’s still half-hard. 

He goes downstairs and kisses Blaine’s warm cheek, and lays back-to-back against him. His heart can’t bear to sleep away from him when they’re lucky enough to be in the same place overnight. But he can hardly contain himself as it is. 

The lust never goes away, but eventually exhaustion wins out, and Kurt joins Blaine and the rest of their friends in sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! I absolutely bask in every single comment/flail/review/compliment/question/piece of concrit/etc.


	14. Very happiest

Kurt wakes up rock hard with his nose buried behind Blaine’s ear. He knows where he is right away—the room feels big around them, and the carpeted floor is digging into his bare arm. His mouth tastes sour and dry from all the alcohol the night before. He opens his eyes slowly and squints into the darkness. The basement has no windows or clocks. It could be any time of day or night. 

His eyes adjust quickly. Blaine snuffles and presses back against him as Kurt leans up on one arm. 

Everyone else is still asleep—Rachel and Quinn are still all tangled together on one couch; Artie is on the other. Mercedes seems to have claimed a big cushy chair for her own sometime during the night. Kurt can hear Puck or maybe Sam snoring off on the other side of the room. Kurt leans up a little more, looking around for the rest of them, trying to remember who stayed here in the basement and who went up to Santana’s room….

Blaine snuffles again, whines, turns over so he’s facing Kurt, and tugs at him, sleep-weak. Kurt settles back down a bit, and Blaine hums happily against his throat, nuzzling into his sleep-sticky skin. Kurt becomes acutely aware of how hard he still is, how the thigh that Blaine has just insinuated between his own is rubbing in the sweetest, slowest little circles—god, is Blaine just getting comfortable in his sleep, or is he actively trying to grind against Kurt—? His body is so warm in sleep, and he smells so goddamn good….

Kurt’s breath deepens and he licks his lips. “Are you awake, sweetie?” he whispers.

“Mmmmm,” Blaine hums, deep in his chest. “Wasn’t.” He rocks into Kurt a little harder. “Kurt, it’s so—so good—” 

Kurt shivers and pulls Blaine flush against him with a hand at the small of his back. He grinds them together, slow and hard and silent. Blaine goes loose and flushes, his eyes still closed, and ducks his head down to suck at Kurt’s jawline. 

Somebody snorts in their sleep, and Kurt freezes. He sits up, trying to disentangle them. Blaine’s hand trails vaguely from Kurt’s hair down his throat, chest, finally resting on his knee. 

Finally, Blaine’s eyes flutter open. Kurt smiles—his lovely boy. 

It takes a few seconds, but Blaine seems to register where they are. “Oh,” he whispers. 

“I’m going to go see if anybody’s awake, maybe get us some water before we head out.”

“Okay,” Blaine replies, rubbing his thumb over Kurt’s inner thigh before reluctantly pulling back. 

“Go change out of your pants—” and despite everything, Kurt blushes. “You soaked through them last night,” he whispers. 

“Okay,” Blaine says again, but there’s something different about his tone. Blaine looks up from underneath his lashes. 

For half a second, Kurt feels like he’s been turned inside out. He plants a hand between Blaine’s shoulder and his head, leans over his boyfriend. But Blaine just goes even looser and more relaxed beneath Kurt. He pretends to stretch but it’s just an excuse to spread himself out, make himself even more obviously vulnerable. Kurt swallows thickly.

“You sure you want to mess with me today?” he asks, heart pounding in his throat. 

Blaine smiles, slowly. “Yes,” he finally answers, glancing down momentarily. The ‘sir’ is silent but heavily implied. 

Kurt draws back. “All right,” he replies evenly. He leans down as though to kiss Blaine’s check, but he nudges Blaine’s face aside and bites hard beneath his jaw instead. Blaine tenses up, gasping—the pain sinks deeper and becomes a particularly warm kind of pleasure that snakes down his throat and spine until it gets to his cock. He is throbbing. Kurt holds the bite and trails his hand between Blaine’s splayed legs to squeeze him there. 

Blaine is still catching his breath when Kurt stands up brusquely and walks away, up the stairs and into the morning. 

“Well, fuck,” Blaine breathes.

*

Kurt makes it upstairs quickly enough; he wants to wash up fast and get them both out the door and into his bedroom. But he immediately gets roped into helping salvage breakfast. By the time he’s helped Santana cook up some non-burnt pancakes, Blaine has emerged from the basement and greeted Kurt with a sleepy kiss to the back of his neck. Kurt flushes immediately—the touch is surprisingly intimate, and Blaine still smells so incredible, Kurt just wants to bury his face against Blaine’s throat (or in his hair, or god, in the crease of his thigh…) and inhale—

The rest of the gang follows not far behind. They claim all the kitchen chairs before Kurt has stacked his plate, so Kurt ends up in Blaine’s lap—which is fine, really, since Rachel is in Finn’s and Santana is in Brittany’s and Tina is in Mike’s. (Hell, Quinn is sitting on Mercedes.) What’s less fine is that Blaine, who looks like he’s just resting his hand on Kurt’s thigh to hold him secure in Blaine’s lap, is actually tracing the sweetest, most sensual, warmest little circles up the inside of Kurt’s leg. 

Kurt can hardly eat for trying keep his breathing regular. He takes huge gulps of ice water to compensate. 

Blaine, thankfully, stops when his hand is about half an inch from Kurt’s dick, and just stays there, thumb tracing a little arc back and forth. It is the hugest fucking tease. It makes Kurt want both of Blaine’s hands on his dick, tight and slick and fast. It makes him want to be on top of Blaine, in him, not even moving, just holding there, throbbing, feeling Blaine twitch and clench around him. 

These are not appropriate thoughts for the breakfast table. Kurt stuffs half a pancake in his mouth to hide a sudden, deep blush. It’s bad enough to be sitting on Blaine’s lap with half Blaine’s throat covered in bite marks in front of everyone—he’s surprised no one has said anything about that. Then again, no one has made any remarks about Santana’s fake orgasm or Quinn’s favorite kisser or Mercedes’s nonvirginal status, either. Kurt swallows most of his pancake, glancing around the table, still wary. 

(Blaine would stop teasing, of course, if Kurt asked. But Kurt’s enjoying it, in his own conflicted way, and he’s curious now. Blaine can be the naughtiest little minx when he’s in the mood.) 

Kurt polishes off his pancakes and makes their excuses pretty quickly, leaving the other stragglers to deal with the dishes. He’s done his part, and he needs to be alone with Blaine now. 

They’re quiet in the car. Kurt privately thinks that there’s nothing he wants to say that’s not completely obscene, and from the way Blaine is watching him, he’s probably in the same boat. So they put the windows down to enjoy the warm summer morning; they sing along with whatever is on the radio. But Kurt can’t ignore the feeling of Blaine’s hungry gaze tracing his body. It’s like a prickling just beneath his skin. 

When they finally pull up to the Hummel-Hudson house, the driveway and garage are blessedly empty. Burt and Carole are out with the Evanses for the day while Sam spends time with friends. 

Kurt turns the ignition off, shifts to look at Blaine. The tension between them snaps taut. Kurt licks his lips. “We’re going to go inside,” he says, with forced calm. “We’re going to go up to my room, and we’re going to lock the door. And then we’re going to look for cameras. And _then_ we can do whatever we want to do. Can you handle that?” 

Blaine is sitting on his hands. His eyes are huge. “Yes, Kurt.” 

“All right, let’s go,” Kurt smiles. His heart is pounding—it’s like he’s about to get on a rollercoaster, but all he’s trying to do is have sex with his boyfriend. He feels ridiculous. He feels very, very happy. 

They practically race one another inside and up the stairs, giggling and tripping over themselves. Blaine beats Kurt inside, and Kurt slams the door closed behind them. He locks it carefully. When he turns back around, Blaine is standing on the bed, inspecting the shelves above. He twists around, gives Kurt a flirty look over his shoulder. “We could give them a show,” he grins. 

“Oh my god, you didn’t find a camera, did you?” asks Kurt, horrified, the buzzy warmth draining from his body.

“No—no no no no!” Blaine looks just as horrified. He hops down from the bed and kisses Kurt’s chin, his nose, his cheek. “No no no no, it was just a—just—” 

“Well, I think they’ve seen quite enough,” Kurt recovers enough to reply. “Though, this show idea—” he pushes Blaine back toward the bed, slowly “—let’s return to that later, hmm?” He pushes Blaine lightly down on his back. Blaine’s pupils have ballooned; his eyes locked to Kurt’s lips. That same wild, visceral desire to _fuck Blaine up_ that Kurt felt yesterday night rears up from his gut— 

But it scares him a little bit, now that they’re alone. He backs away, Blaine’s eyes tracking him closely. He forces himself to check all the other likely hiding places for a camera—among his skin products, above his curtains, snuck atop a book on his shelves—but finds nothing. He turns back to the bed to find Blaine with his jeans unbuttoned. He’s not jerking off, but he has one hand in his pants snug and warm along his cock, and he’s all flushed up. 

It helps to be across the room, not within a hairsbreadth of Blaine’s skin. Kurt feels the frantic need settle down in him, like sheets shaken out and then let fall. He exhales slowly, trying to savor this, trying not to rush it—which is hard when Blaine is actually whining and touching himself on Kurt’s bed. Fuck. 

“What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?” he asks, approaching the bed slowly.

“Trying not to go crazy?” Blaine answers, tentative. He grins sweetly. 

“Well, I think you’re teasing,” Kurt answers. He’s smiling, kneeling up on the bed, swinging a leg over Blaine—

And, god, this is actually happening. It’s been so fucking long. Kurt is holding his breath. He unzips Blaine’s jeans the rest of the way and tugs Blaine’s hand out of his pants. 

And then, still fully clothed, he sits down right over Blaine’s hard cock, still encased in Blaine’s pretty striped boxer-briefs. His thighs bracket Blaine’s torso closely. 

Blaine lets out a long breath. He would stay here forever. He never feels more secure than he does beneath Kurt. He exhales thickly, surprised to find himself on the edge of tears—it’s like a homecoming.

“I think you’ve been teasing me all morning,” Kurt is saying. He starts to rock his hips slowly forward and backward. Blaine shudders—Kurt knows because he can feel Blaine’s abs twitching against the insides of Kurt’s thighs. Kurt’s tight jeans keep the tease from going too far, but he can feel the heat and shape of Blaine’s cock pushing against his balls and the cleft of his ass. “All night, even,” he adds. 

He keeps rocking. Blaine feels so hot, even through Kurt’s pants, and it’s making Kurt almost dizzy, knowing how aroused Blaine is, just from this. He can feel how Blaine is tensing, trying not to thrust up against him. God, feeling Blaine struggle with his own body is delicious. 

“Is that right?” Kurt asks after a long moment, licking his lips. 

“Yes,” Blaine answers. Kurt rocks down a little harder. 

“Mmmmm, my minx is back, huh? You like teasing me? Even in front of all our friends?”

“Yes, Kurt,” Blaine replies. He blushes even harder. 

Kurt cocks his head, and lifts himself up a little bit to unzip his own pants. He lets himself fall forward on his hands over Blaine, grinds their underwear-covered cocks together. “And how do you like being teased, baby?” 

Blaine is shivering. “Kurt—sir—” he begs, rocking up into Kurt minutely. 

Kurt lowers himself down further, bringing more pressure to where they’re grinding and bringing their faces within inches of one another. “Do you like it?” 

“Yes,” Blaine gasps. “ _Please._ ” 

“Please, what?” 

“Please kiss me—”

Kurt smiles, and leans down to close the gap between them. The kiss starts sweet, but the way they’re grinding below turns it dirty fast, making Blaine gasp, his mouth wet and open. Kurt eagerly sucks and bites at Blaine’s full bottom lip, and before long they’re both moaning into it—and Kurt’s so tempted to just keep going, keep pushing it, get them both off like this—quick and filthy—god, they’re so close already, and then he could slow them down afterwards, slow this all down once they’re not coming out of their skin with lust—

But then Blaine kind of snaps, rocking up hard against him, his hands coming up to grip Kurt’s biceps—and Kurt sits back, smacks Blaine’s hands away, presses them back down hard over Blaine’s head. And Blaine keens, going completely still under him, panting. 

And Kurt remembers just how much he likes to have Blaine coming out of his skin. 

“Stay,” he says, pressing down hard on Blaine’s hands. Blaine nods, and Kurt hops off the bed. 

He digs into his bottom bedside drawer, fishing around until he finds a medium-sized anal plug he bought months and months ago, when he was curious about what having something inside would feel like without the feedback of his fingers. It’s sleek and black, with a bulbous head and a curved rectangular base. Kurt hasn’t used it in a while—he loves bottoming, but it turns out that it’s really the motion (the _fucking_ , he sometimes thinks) that does it for him, not just the pressure of something inside. 

Blaine, on the other hand, loves the whole sweep of it from rimming to fingering to prostate stimulation to fucking, so this will be perfect. 

Kurt meticulously cleans his toys before and after each use, but he runs to the bathroom to wash the plug again anyway. When he gets back and grabs some lube from the drawer, Blaine hasn’t moved except to turn his face toward Kurt. 

“You okay?” Kurt asks, kneeling quickly over Blaine again. He knows that Blaine prefers to stay physically near Kurt when they’re playing. 

“Mmmhm,” Blaine answers happily, eyes on the plug. 

“I’m going to put this in you, okay?” 

“That sounds awesome,” Blaine answers. He keeps his arms over his head, makes no move to undress himself—good boy. Kurt feels so content and proud. Blaine knows so much of what Kurt likes, and Kurt likes to think he’s the same about Blaine. They’ve come a long way. 

“Full sentences, huh?” Kurt laughs, sitting down on Blaine’s cock again, rocking against it. The long drag of Blaine’s shaft against where Kurt’s cleft and balls is the most incredible tease through Kurt’s pants and their underwear. 

“It shouldn’t—” Blaine gasps when Kurt starts making little circles with his hips. “—shouldn’t be too hard to get me back to moaning.” He whimpers behind pressed-closed lips. 

“No, hmm?” Kurt laughs, grinding a little slower. 

Blaine swallows hard, watching where their bodies meet. “No, sir,” Blaine pants. 

Kurt leans down. “Good,” he whispers in Blaine’s ear. Then he bites down over one of the big hickeys from the night before. 

Blaine moans and arches up against him—“Oh, please,” he begs. 

Kurt releases the bite quickly—there’ll be plenty of time for that later—and asks, “Please what, darling?” 

“Let me come,” Blaine gasps. 

Kurt laughs. “Oh no, sweetie. No no no.” He rubs his boxer-brief-covered cock slowly over Blaine’s, and Blaine stutters out an uneven moan. 

“You sound beautiful, baby,” Kurt praises, trying to keep his voice even—hearing Blaine being taken apart, hearing his lust turn him mindless and desperate, is the sweetest aphrodisiac. He lifts himself up a little so he’s not grinding so hard—otherwise he’s going to make himself come in about fifteen seconds. Jesus.

Blaine is flushed and relaxed and just gorgeous under him. Kurt takes a minute to remember what the hell he was doing other than rubbing off on his boyfriend. Oh, right—

“Sit up for a minute for me, sweetie,” Kurt says, and Blaine does. Kurt quickly gets Blaine’s shirt off, and then he scoots down the bed to tug off his socks and pants and boxer-briefs too. And (because he can’t stand one more second without their skin touching) he strips quickly out of his own clothes. He kisses his way back up the inside of Blaine’s leg, and grants Blaine an extra kiss just beneath the head of his cock. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Blaine gasps, curling up around him, and Kurt grins and nips at his hip. 

“How you doing?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“Green,” Blaine answers vehemently, almost incredulously. Kurt smiles hugely. 

“Ready for this?” he asks, picking up the lube and plug. 

“Mmmmhm,” Blaine replies, licking his lips. 

“Good boy,” Kurt smiles from between Blaine’s legs. He pushes Blaine’s knees up and back until they’re up against either side of his chest, and then has Blaine hug them to keep them there. 

God, Blaine looks so—tiny, contained, exposed. Just looking at him like this, Kurt’s ears rush, and his cock _throbs_ — 

He can’t resist leaning forward to lick Blaine cleft to balls—and when Blaine cries out at the sweet tease of it, Kurt does it again and again and again and again, back and forth, not pausing, letting his tongue get Blaine messy and wet, until Blaine is panting hard, squirming against his face—Kurt’s hands holding his hips down are the only things keeping him in place. 

“Put—” but Blaine trails off into a moan as Kurt licks his way back up to his balls. “Sir, please put something in me, _please,_ ” he gets out. 

Kurt freezes—just the way Blaine phrased that— “ _Something_ , huh,” he teases. He lubes up his first two fingers and lets them circle Blaine’s rim. Blaine shivers. 

“Please,” Blaine whines. 

Nerves twist Kurt’s gut, but he keeps circling his fingers around and around, steady, relentless. “You’d take anything, huh?”

“I—” Blaine begins, too far gone, twisting back against Kurt’s teasing fingers. 

“I know, baby, you just need something stretching you open. You little _slut_ ,” Kurt whispers, and then he pushes his first two fingers in all at once. 

“ _Yes_ —” Blaine gasps, arching harder against Kurt’s fingers.

Kurt laughs softly as some of the tension drains out—he’s a little nervous, an uncomfortable shaky layer of it atop the endless undertow of his lust. They haven’t really thrown ‘slut’ around before. They’ve talked about it a little, and they’ve played around with the _idea_ a lot—Kurt torments Blaine until Blaine moans out just how much he needs to be fucked basically as much as their limited sex life will allow. They both love that. But Kurt has been nervous about bringing the words themselves into it—they’re charged, and he wasn’t sure he would be comfortable saying them, and he doesn’t want to hurt Blaine or mess up something that already really, really works. 

But now that he’s said it, Kurt can feel the rightness in his gut—hell, in his cock—and his fingers are sinking into Blaine’s ass so easily, and it’s so hot inside, and Blaine is flushing and sweating and squirming, staring up at Kurt and whining, trying to curl up tighter to get Kurt’s fingers deeper—yes, this is perfect.

Kurt grins and adds a third finger, more lube. Blaine exhales hard, lets his head fall back in satisfaction at the stretch. 

“You like that, huh?” Kurt asks, fucking his fingers in hard a couple times. 

“Yes,” Blaine pants. 

“ _Such_ a little slut,” Kurt says, playing with the word, feeling Blaine clench down hard around his fingers in response. “You want more, huh? That’s not enough?” He can guess the answer; he pulls out his fingers.

“Yes please, sir,” Blaine begs as Kurt lubes up the plug. Kurt grins wolfishly. 

“Oh my. You’re _very_ polite for a greedy cockslut,” he mocks. He teases around and around and around Blaine’s hole with the plug. 

“ _Sir_ —” Blaine moans—Kurt can’t tell if he’s completely scandalized or not beneath all that pleasure, but he knows it’s a good moan. He rests the plug against Blaine’s rim—and from there he doesn’t even have to try, he just lets Blaine’s needy ass and the plug’s own weight sink it in and in and in.

God, and even looking at it slide in so smoothly makes Kurt want to tug it right back out and put his cock inside instead. The fantasy is so vivid that Kurt actually draws the plug back half an inch before he realizes what he’s doing; Blaine whines at the tease. God, it’s been so fucking long—

But Kurt is having so much fun with this. He’d almost forgotten how much fun this all is—there’s a reason he and Blaine call it playing. 

He pushes the plug the rest of the way in and watches Blaine’s eyes roll back in his head. “Good boy,” he murmurs, tapping at the exposed end of the plug. Blaine’s cock twitches and his legs clench up. 

“Thank you sir,” Blaine replies, breathy, clenching down on the plug. Kurt watches him for a moment, rubbing his hands up and down the exposed undersides of Blaine’s thighs. Then he tugs Blaine’s legs down from his chest, keeping them bent at the knee, and puts Blaine’s arms back above his head. 

“Ok?” 

“Yes sir,” Blaine says. His cock is hard and red and leaking against his belly—Kurt suddenly jolts with the realization that this is the fifth time Blaine has been hard for him since yesterday. And Kurt hasn’t let him come yet. 

God, his sub is fucking amazing. And Kurt is really enjoying being cruel. 

Kurt sits back where he was before, when they were rubbing together. It’s different now—they’re both naked, for one, and Blaine is really going under. Kurt rubs lube on his rim and perineum, then presses Blaine’s cock between—and he rocks, like before, rubs that gorgeous shaft against his cleft, lets the head catch and tease at his entrance a few times. He keeps his left hand pressed to the underside of Blaine’s cock to hold it there against him, rubbing, teasing both of them until they’re moaning into one another’s mouths. 

“That feels good huh?” Kurt breathes. “I know it’s not enough for a greedy little thing like you, but I bet you’d rub up against anything at this point, huh?”

Blaine groans, bites his lips. His eyes are hazily fixed on Kurt, and he’s so flushed, all the way down his chest—it’s gorgeous. And it’s all for Kurt. 

“It’s okay baby,” Kurt soothes. “I know how much you need it all the time, even though you try so very hard to be a good boy.” His free hand traces Blaine’s cheek and nudges against his lips. Blaine sucks all four of Kurt’s fingers in, getting them soaked, tonguing his way between them, moaning. 

“See? You open up so good for me,” Kurt gasps, and Blaine moans around his fingers. Fuck, if Kurt had any illusions about all this teasing not getting to him, they’ve disappeared—Blaine’s mouth is so hot and wet and mobile sucking on his fingers, and the noises he makes are so delicious, and if Kurt weren’t too busy rubbing the sweet sensitive slide of his cleft against Blaine’s cock, he would shove his own cock down Blaine’s throat right now. 

Kurt gets himself under control, barely, and pulls his fingers from Blaine’s mouth. He wraps the now-soaking fingers around his cock, starts to jerk off—but very slowly, because he’s been on edge practically since he woke up. The four fingers wrapped around the underside of his cock are rubbing up and down Blaine’s stubbly happy trail every time Kurt jacks himself. Blaine is staring hungrily at Kurt’s red, spit-slick cock. He whines—a pretty, wordless begging sound that makes Kurt smirk. 

“Can you clench down on that plug for me, baby?” Kurt pants, jacking his cock a little faster. He feels Blaine’s stomach muscles tense beneath him as he does so—and then Blaine moans and even sobs a little, clasping his hands together above his head to keep them still. 

“Feels good to have something inside, huh?” Kurt whispers, pressing Blaine’s cock harder against his rim. 

“Oh yes sir—” Blaine gasps. 

“But I’m still teasing you, aren’t I?” Kurt asks. He lets go of his own cock, delaying the orgasm he’d felt building in his gut. Blaine’s eyes are fixed on Kurt’s swollen, leaking tip. He actually licks his lips, and Kurt groans. 

Once he’s pulled himself together a little, he asks again: “Am I teasing you, baby?” He traces his pointer finger, glossy with precome, around one of Blaine’s nipples. 

Blaine tears his eyes away from Kurt’s cock. “Yes, sir,” he answers softly. Kurt smiles. 

“Oh, I already know, honey,” he says, all sweetness as he continues to rock back against Blaine’s cock. “Don’t be embarrassed. I know I’m teasing you. Now tell me how.” 

Blaine whimpers and hides his face against his own bicep. 

“Tell me or I’ll stop,” Kurt warns, pressing Blaine’s dribbling cock harder against his perineum pointedly.

Blaine moans, hips twitching up against Kurt’s ass. Kurt growls and falls forward, pinning Blaine down at his shoulders. Blaine’s cock is still rubbing between his cheeks—but lightly now, just a whisper of a touch without Kurt’s hand pressing it in hard. 

“I know it’s difficult for you—needy slut, can’t help yourself.” Blaine is whining quietly, and Kurt shushes him, continuing, “I know, I know, baby—but you need to be good for me. If you move again, I’ll stop touching you. You’ll lay still right here and I’ll go jerk off in that chair.” 

“No please please please no sir please,” Blaine pleads, gasping, “ _please_ I can’t I _need_ you please I can’t _please_ —”

Kurt’s heart aches, and he’s not sure if he could follow through on it, if he could stop touching Blaine. Not today. Not after how long they’ve waited, not with the sheer relief of Blaine spread out under him. But hopefully he won’t have to make that decision. “Then be good for me,” Kurt replies, leaning down closer to Blaine. “Be good and I’ll give you everything you need, sweetheart.” He pauses, and it’s almost like a confession, whispering, “I’ll fill you up so good.” Blaine whines. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Blaine breathes. 

“Color, Blaine?” Kurt asks again, because the anguish Blaine’s voice as he begged Kurt to stay near had been real. 

“Green, sir,” Blaine breathes. 

“Such a good boy for me,” Kurt replies, relieved. He leans down a little more to kiss Blaine hard until his arms start to shake with the effort of holding him up. 

“So good for me,” Kurt repeats, sitting back up. He reaches back around to press Blaine’s cock against his hole. The lube isn’t quite as slick now, so he’s grinding more than rocking—the rougher friction is less of a tease. Blaine’s breathing has gone ragged, his hips giving the tiniest little aborted twitches. 

“You’re taking it so well, baby,” Kurt breathes. 

“Thank you sir,” Blaine chokes out, shuddering. Every single time he clenches up to keep his hips from bucking against Kurt, the plug presses so hard and good inside. He feels like he’s going to shiver out of his skin, but he also feels like his body is getting heavier, sinking deeper and deeper into the bed.

“Will you keep being good for me?” Kurt asks. 

“Yes sir,” Blaine moans. His cock is leaking. He can feel the slide against sir’s ass getting smoother, wetter. 

Kurt notices too. Licks his lips. His free hand starts to stroke his cock again. Precome dribbles out almost immediately, and Kurt smoothes some of it along his shaft, the rest dripping down onto Blaine’s skin. 

Kurt isn’t actually confident in his ability to put a sentence together at the moment, but he tries anyway. “I asked you a question earlier. But—” Kurt’s breath stutters as his own fingers glide over the head of his cock “—but you were so embarrassed, baby. Much too embarrassed for a plugged up little cockslut.” If Kurt could get any redder than he already is, he would. But Blaine is gasping in pleasure— 

“Please sir,” Blaine whines, but he doesn’t even quite know what he’s begging for. He can’t take his eyes off Kurt’s cock. It’s sliding all wet and pink through Kurt’s fist. Blaine wants to smell it, taste it, stroke it. He wants his mouth around it. He wants his _ass_ around it. Some parts of him are trying to squirm away from his own fixation, his own desire—there’s something obscene, base, even shameful about how much he just _wants it in his body_ —but Kurt’s knees bracket him in, and Kurt will push him right back down if he tries to sit up. Blaine can feel the phantom pressure of Kurt’s hand at the center of his chest. He almost feels like Kurt is keeping Blaine’s eyes right where they are, fixed on his cock. 

“I asked you how I was teasing you, baby. How am I teasing you?” comes Kurt’s voice from above him.

Blaine almost hides his face again but he wants so badly to be a good boy, so he doesn’t. He feels like he’s holding himself right at the edge of coming—there’s this buzzing rush in his cock and ass and up his back and in his throat, in the palms of his hands—and, god, the shame in the pit of his gut is only feeding the it, only making him all squeeze at the plug in him even harder—

“You’re not letting me touch,” he finally whispers. He still can’t get his eyes off Kurt’s cock. 

“You want to touch me, baby? How do you want to touch me?” Blaine can see Kurt’s finger tease over the head of his cock. It comes away shiny and wet with precome. 

Blaine almost starts to cry—he knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to say it, but he also really, _really_ does. “I want to touch your cock,” he finally breathes. 

“What’s that, love?” Kurt asks, his voice blessedly soft and free of judgment.

“I want to touch your cock, sir,” Blaine whispers, a little louder. 

“Such a good boy,” Kurt praises him, leaning down to kiss at Blaine’s forehead and collarbones. Getting this close to Blaine doesn’t leave much room for Kurt’s hand around his cock, so he removes it entirely and starts grinding down against Blaine’s belly, the crease of his hip instead—

Blaine’s eyes roll back in his head. God, feeling Kurt using his body to get off is unbelievable—Blaine’s breath heaves out of him as his arousal spikes—

Kurt’s breath has gone uneven too—he’s close, and Blaine can’t touch, not the way he needs to. Kurt is all over him, his ass and hand teasing Blaine’s cock, his plug in Blaine’s ass, his thighs squeezing in around Blaine’s sides as he grinds his cock down into Blaine’s stomach, rubbing harder and harder—but Blaine needs more, more, more, more—

“Is that all you want, sweetheart?” Kurt whispers shakily in Blaine’s ear. Blaine whimpers, doesn’t answer, and Kurt continues. “We both know exactly how cockhungry you are, baby. You can tell me, it’s okay.” Blaine can hear how breathy Kurt’s voice has become, how unevenly he’s thrusting against Blaine’s sweaty hip—and god it’s the best and worst tease, Kurt’s cock on him like this—

“I want—I want—sir I want you in me, I just want you in me all the time sir please I need you please please _please,_ sir—” Blaine starts sobbing, gasping in the hot air between them. 

“Shhhhhh,” Kurt breathes in Blaine’s ear, kissing there repeatedly, warm and gentle. “Shhhh, baby, I’m going to take care of you, shhhh, shhhh, I know—” and he’s licking at the salty sweat and the tears along Blaine’s jaw, and Blaine is abruptly so close his whole ass is twitching around the plug, and he’s gasping out _please please please please_ into Kurt’s hair—

“Such a good boy for me,” Kurt is saying, low in his ear. “You need it so bad, poor little thing. Let me hear how good it feels, sweetheart—just like that—” And god, Kurt is—spasming, and his cock is wet and leaking against Blaine’s skin, _fuck_ — “Let me hear how much you want it, and _don’t come_.” 

Blaine’s moan is so pretty and so pained, and Kurt himself nearly comes just from that. But he holds off and holds off, feels Blaine twitching and leaking along the cleft of his ass, feels Blaine’s belly clench and release again and again as he pulls at he plug inside him—god, his moans, his desperate panting—and finally Kurt can’t stand it anymore, and he’s gasping, licking up Blaine’s tears; he reaches between them to jack his cock hard and comes all over Blaine’s stomach and chest. 

He comes down slowly, nuzzling his face against Blaine’s damp throat, fisting his own cock slowly until it’s too uncomfortable to continue. He hums contentedly in Blaine’s ear, letting his muscles relax one by one until he’s laying loose and comfortable and sticky on Blaine’s chest. 

Blaine, to his credit, tries to stay still despite how far gone he is. He whines a little, and he shivers whenever he can’t resist anymore and clenches down on the plug. He stays quiet when Kurt blearily lifts himself up and wipes the come off with a tissue, even though he really wants to lick it all up. He stays still when Kurt settles right back down, drifting half to laying on top of him, even though his cock is still leaking and twitching against his dominant’s ass. He tries so hard to be good, but it’s difficult, and it leaves Blaine feeling hazy and heavy and desperate. 

It feels good, too, though. He’s knows he’s pleasing Kurt. He’s letting his sir use his body exactly how Kurt wants. Blaine aches and shivers and he can’t stop thinking about coming—and it feels, in the plainest way, right. 

“You’re being very good,” Kurt murmurs sleepily, long moments later. 

“Thank you sir,” Blaine whispers, trembling as he bears down on the plug again. 

“You’re a wonderful pillow,” Kurt continues. 

Blaine smiles. He wishes he could stroke Kurt’s long, smooth back, but he doesn’t think he’s allowed to move his arms yet. 

“Do you think you deserve a reward, sweetling?” Kurt asks, still soft, lips brushing the shell of Blaine’s ear. 

“Sir—?” Blaine isn’t the one who makes those decisions. He doesn’t even want to think about making those decisions. 

“Well?” Kurt prods, his voice a touch teasing.

“I don’t know, sir,” Blaine answers, a little embarrassed. 

“You’re being very good now, but I still don’t think I’m going to give you a reward,” Kurt says. Blaine presses his lips together, worried—did he do something wrong? “You teased me,” Kurt continues. “And I teased you back. But I’m not satisfied yet.” 

Blaine has no answer. 

“In fact,” Kurt continues after a moment, “I think I might have to punish you.” 

Blaine tenses up all over, and Kurt can feel it. He pulls back a little. “You teased me all morning, baby,” Kurt explains, running his fingers through Blaine’s hair sweetly. “Did you really think I would let you get away with that?” 

“Please don’t go away,” Blaine begs, the words tumbling from his mouth before he even decides to speak. He feels shaky. “Please, please, please I need you, I need you to be—to be touching me—” 

“Shhhhhh,” Kurt breathes in reply, and leans down to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, over and over, gently, until Blaine is lulled with the rhythm of it, calm. 

“I’m not going to go away,” Kurt finally says, dropping another kiss to Blaine’s lips. “No matter what, I’m going to keep touching you all day, and we’re not going to stop until we absolutely have to.” He kisses Blaine again. “Do you understand?”

Blaine nods quietly. He sits halfway up to kiss Kurt, and then immediately lays back down. 

Kurt smiles and takes a deep breath, his thumb stroking Blaine’s cheek. “Color?” he asks.

“Green,” Blaine whispers. “Thank you, sir.”

Kurt smiles, and sits back a little. His hands are rubbing up and down Blaine’s sides. “Let me slow down and explain, okay? I was thinking about doing a sort of play punishment. We haven’t talked much about real punishment, and I don’t even know how I feel about it yet. I definitely don’t want to do anything like that today.” Kurt pauses, waiting for Blaine’s nod. “I’m not mad at you, sweetie. You haven’t done anything wrong. This is all play. I just thought—well, you’ve been such a little tease, and I thought maybe I’d spank you for it.” Kurt grins, looking nervous. “But only if you want.” 

Blaine’s stomach turns uneasily, right at the crux of excitement and trepidation. Spanking is one of the very first things he came across when he started looking into kink, a couple years ago now, and he’s had fantasies about it ever since—sometimes quite intense ones. He and Kurt had never prioritized it, mostly because it tends to be really loud and they (obviously) have limited privacy. But now, with the house to themselves and a fun pretense for Blaine needing ‘punishment’—it’s perfect. 

Blaine’s still anxious, though. He loves the whole idea of spanking, the dynamics of it—but even though he loves Kurt’s bites and hickeys, he doesn’t really think of himself as a masochist—so… what if he just doesn’t like it? He shifts a little between Kurt’s warm thighs, and Kurt tilts his chin up with gentle fingers. 

“Sweetheart, we don’t have to do this. I won’t be disappointed, not at all,” he murmurs, eyes searching Blaine’s face. 

“No,” Blaine answers, his voice scratchy with nerves and disuse. If he doesn’t like it, he can safeword, he reminds himself. He knows this. He knows this, and he trusts Kurt absolutely, so there’s no reason to be afraid. “I—I want it.” 

And immediately, a wave of pure black lust rushes through Blaine, momentarily stealing his breath—he had forgotten: there’s something about saying it aloud. He feels like he’s being pulled down into the mattress, feels heavy and pressed and still. “Sir, please,” he breathes. 

Kurt keeps his strokes down Blaine’s sides steady even as his heart begins to pound in his chest. “Oh, that’s beautiful, baby,” he murmurs—he hasn’t seen anything put Blaine down so quickly since the (scary but incredible) bondage episode. He hopes that he’s learned enough from that to handle Blaine a little more calmly this time. He watches as Blaine licks his lips, his eyes huge and fixed on Kurt. 

Kurt could look at him like this all day, but he promised a spanking. He draws in one long breath, and then asks, “Where do you want to be?” 

“Sir,” Blaine murmurs, licking his lips. 

Kurt takes another breath, still soothing Blaine with steady strokes of his hands. “I asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says. “Be a good boy for me.” 

There’s a long pause—well, it’s probably really only several seconds—but Kurt waits it out. Then Blaine whispers, “Your lap, sir.”

“Very good,” Kurt replies, and he leans down to kiss Blaine’s lax mouth. Blaine moans softly from deep in his chest, and Kurt can feel Blaine’s cock, which had gone half-hard against his ass, twitching back to full hardness. 

“Good boy,” Kurt repeats, his lips brushing Blaine’s, and then he gingerly moves off Blaine’s lap, tugging Blaine up too. He situates himself at the edge of the bed with both feet flat on the floor and helps Blaine settle belly-down across his lap. 

Blaine’s head is pillowed on his own crossed arms, and his eyes are just barely slitted open. Kurt finds his eyes lingering over the whole exposed swathe of Blaine’s body, from his gently coiling, damp hair down the beautifully muscled lines of his back, and over the tempting curve of his ass. His eyes stop at the exposed flared base of the plug—he’d nearly forgotten about it. He lingers there, teasing his fingertips over the swell of Blaine’s buttocks and then swirling in to circle where the wide base of the plug is pressing into his full cheeks. 

“Do you need more lube, baby? Because this is staying in,” Kurt says. He taps firmly on the end of the plug—and just like that, Blaine clenches down on it and moans, eyelashes fluttering. Kurt feels arousal twisting in his gut as he watches all the muscles in Blaine’s back shift and flex as he squirms in Kurt’s lap. One of Kurt’s arms curls around the small of Blaine’s back automatically, holding him securely there against Kurt.

“No sir,” Blaine finally answers, barely audible. “Feels good,” he adds, slurring a little, as though sleepy. 

“Very good, sweetheart,” Kurt says, and he begins smoothing the palm of his hand from the small of Blaine’s back over his ass and halfway down his thighs. “That’s very good. It feels good to be full, huh?” He teases at the line where Blaine’s ass and thighs meet, and feels Blaine’s legs quiver. His cock twitches against the muscle of Kurt’s thigh. 

“Yes sir,” Blaine exhales. 

Kurt hums appreciatively, and goes back to rubbing Blaine’s ass and the backs of his thighs. He’s probably being too cautious, he thinks, but it’s certainly not a hardship—he could spend all day groping Blaine’s ass and consider it a day very well spent. 

After a minute or two of this, Kurt feels much more settled. The repetitive contact with Blaine’s warm skin, the sound of his sub’s even breaths, is like a balm covering all his worries. And that’s when Blaine arches his ass into Kurt’s friction-warmed hand. 

“So pretty,” Kurt murmurs, still grinning, tracing his fingers one by one down the cleft of Blaine’s ass. “Such a pretty little _tease._ ” He taps at the end of the plug, and Blaine moans, rocking against Kurt’s thigh. 

Kurt tuts, tapping ever so lightly at the end of the plug. “Look how greedy you are,” he says. “That’s what got you into this mess, huh?” He drags his hand along the cleft of Blaine’s ass, then again over the roundest part of his cheeks. “Poor thing. Such a slut, and so little relief.” Blaine whimpers, and Kurt shushes him, adding, “I know baby, I know. We don’t have enough time together, you and I. I know you need it—but you need to wait like a good boy, instead of teasing me.” 

Blaine is grinding into Kurt’s thigh as best he can, whining lowly, all eagerness. Kurt knows it’s time to begin. 

The first spank is firm but relatively light—just a warm-up hit, right under the curve of Blaine’s ass. It must sting, though, because Kurt’s hand is certainly stinging. Kurt repeats it, his hand coming down on Blaine’s other cheek. Then he pauses. 

Blaine whines, high and needy, searching, his cock is twitching against Kurt’s thigh. So Kurt goes for it—spanks him again and again, letting the blows fall all over Blaine’s cheeks and upper thighs now, covering them—he feels Blaine’s skin warm under his hands, sees it blush pink—

And fuck, Kurt himself is panting now—he _loves_ seeing his marks on Blaine’s skin. He’s sure there’s something fucked up about that, but it doesn’t change the vicious, possessive rush that fills him when he watches his own hand come down again, harder this time, turning Blaine’s ass one shade darker. 

He rests his hand where it landed for a moment, listening to their ragged breathing. He squeezes Blaine’s asscheek, hot under his palm, and Blaine keens, pressing back into him. 

“More?” Kurt asks. 

“Yes sir,” Blaine says. 

“Tell me what it feels like,” Kurt says, watching his own fingers kneading into Blaine’s generous ass. 

“Yes sir,” Blaine replies. 

“Good boy,” Kurt croons, and brings his hand down again, hard, on the underside of Blaine’s ass. Blaine cries out for the first time, and Kurt hesitates, his stinging hand frozen in the air. 

“Tell me,” he repeats, hitching Blaine closer. 

“Feels—feels—” Blaine struggles “—feels _good,_ ” he finally gasps, and Kurt spanks him again, just as hard as before, on the opposite cheek. Blaine is shuddering all over.

“ _Tell me,_ ” Kurt repeats, and he begins to spank Blaine again, not as hard now—he wants to hear it, wants to hear Blaine’s breath stutter, wants to hear his sub’s pleasure eclipsing his shame—

“You own me,” Blaine breathes instead, boneless in Kurt’s lap. 

Kurt’s entire body goes hot, his mouth goes wet—and he needs Blaine closer. Now. 

Kurt pulls Blaine upright—not roughly, but very firmly—and Blaine goes along, loose and pliable in Kurt’s arms. Kurt tugs until Blaine is in his lap, facing and straddling him. Blaine’s eyes are open just a sliver, his arms completely limp along his sides. Kurt wants—fuck, Kurt wants him _on his cock_ —but first, he yanks Blaine forward by the back of his neck, tucks Blaine’s sweaty face into the side of his neck—their bodies are now pressed together belly to throat—and spanks Blaine’s ass hard. 

Oh god—Kurt can feel it all now: the shudder that runs through Blaine’s body, the little shocked huff of breath that puffs out of his wet lips, the way his stomach clenches up, the way his cock twitches against Kurt’s belly—fuck, fuck, fuck—Kurt brings his hand down again just to feel Blaine shudder against him again, gasping in his ear, their cocks rubbing together—

It only takes a minute or two before Kurt feels like he’s about to come out of his skin if he isn’t inside Blaine. He wraps one arm tight around Blaine’s waist, and uses his free hand to tap and tug at the plug. 

“Gonna take this out now, sweetheart,” he pants in Blaine’s ear. Blaine clings to him, rubbing his face into Kurt’s throat. “Want to fuck you.” 

Blaine moans, low and wordless, nodding against Kurt’s neck. 

“Such a greedy little thing,” Kurt whispers into Blaine’s hair as he pulls the plug out. Blaine starts to whimper at the emptiness, and Kurt pets down his back in long, slow strokes until he goes still in Kurt’s lap. Then Kurt slicks up his own cock. Presses the blunt, wet head to Blaine’s rim. It’s sinfully soft and open, and Kurt feels his cock twitch just there, teasing them both. Blaine inhales sharply against his throat. 

“Something you need, baby?” Kurt whispers. 

“Mmmhm,” Blaine hums, burying his face closer against Kurt’s neck. 

“Show me,” Kurt breathes in his ear. “Show me how much you need it.” 

Blaine sinks down on Kurt’s cock and keeps sinking until he’s seated back in Kurt’s lap, Kurt’s balls pressed up against his rim. Kurt nearly throws him down on the bed, but it feels so good to hold his squirming, whining, blushing little sub still right there in his lap that he restrains himself. A moment later, Blaine moans and starts twitching his hips just barely, shoving Kurt’s cock in in in, keeping them locked together. 

“Oh, you like that, huh, sweetheart?” Kurt pants. Blaine nods frantically against his sweaty throat, starts licking at it, following the lines of Kurt’s tendons. 

“Little slut finally got some cock,” Kurt murmurs—Blaine moans into the hickey he’s sucking, he squeezes down on Kurt cock, hard— and, “ _Fuck_ , baby,” Kurt gasps—the hot, twitching pressure is incredible. 

“Good boy,” Kurt adds as Blaine goes back to writhing on his cock. And without thinking, to accompany the praise, Kurt spanks Blaine, sharp and hard. 

Blaine gasps and squeezes down again, his cock twitching and leaking against Kurt’s belly. “Sir,” he keens. 

“You like that, little one?” Kurt pants, hardly able to string words together as Blaine clamps down on his cock. “You like the heat? Or the pain?” Blaine is holding onto him so hard that his fingers are digging into the muscles of Kurt’s back, but even that feels good—god does it feel right to have Blaine cling, to have him desperate, to have so much of his skin on Kurt’s. 

Kurt smoothes his hands up and down the hot skin of Blaine’s parted asscheeks, sliding between to tease at the slick place where he and Blaine are joined. He tries to get himself together, but there’s so much heat and sweat, and Blaine is so desperate, and it all comes rushing out in a mess: “I think you like knowing I can do whatever I want to you,” he says. “Mess with your body, push you around—hurt you—” he spanks Blaine again, and Blaine gasps _please please please_ in his ear, clenching down so hard that Kurt’s eyes roll back “—yeah, fuck you up— _use_ you up—”

Kurt brings his hand down again, and Blaine is twitching around him now, pleading into his throat, “Oh please please please sir please I can’t please oh—oh please—”

“You want to come on my cock?” Kurt breathes. 

“Yes sir,” Blaine sobs.

“Look me in the eye and ask for permission, like a good boy.” 

Blaine moans incoherently against Kurt’s throat, but his cock is twitching and dribbling, nearly purple at the head, so he leans back, squeezing down around Kurt’s cock, struggling to look him in the eye. 

Kurt spanks him again just to watch him gasp and struggle not to come, watch the pleasure rushing up his body—watch his head fall limply back and expose his marked-up throat. 

“Ask me,” Kurt repeats, breathily—and, god, if Blaine waits much longer, Kurt himself won’t be able to hold off. 

“May I—please—” Blaine pants, but his head is still hanging back. 

“Look at me,” Kurt demands, digging his fingers into Blaine’s reddened ass, yanking him down another centimeter on his cock.

“Fuck,” Blaine gasps sharply, head falling forward again. He meets Kurt’s eyes. There’s only a tiny ring of golden iris left around his huge pupils. “May I—please sir, may I come?” 

“Try again,” Kurt breathes, eyes boring into Blaine’s hungrily.

Blaine moans, desperately needy, but his eyes remain locked with Kurt’s as though entranced. “May I please come on your cock, sir?” He blushes deeply, visible even on his sex-flushed skin.

“That’s my good little cockslut,” Kurt replies, and Blaine ducks his head, his rim twitching, pulsing around Kurt’s cock. Kurt is about to go out of his mind. “Come,” he orders, and immediately, Blaine’s ass is convulsing around him, his come soaking Kurt’s stomach—and Kurt locks his arms around Blaine, thrusts up exactly once into his twitching wet heat before he’s spilling inside Blaine, shaking, clutching Blaine closer, pumping up into his ass again and again until the pleasure plateaus, unspools, stretches to the far reaches of Kurt’s body—and then at last it fades, leaving him completely spent. 

Kurt kisses sweetly at Blaine’s cheekbone, his hair, his forehead as Blaine’s ass slowly stops twitching around his cock. He shifts so he can slip out, gently. They’re both still flushed and sweaty. 

“Oh my god,” Kurt finally says, grinning. “You’re amazing.” 

Blaine pulls back from where he’d been resting cheek-to-cheek with Kurt to let Kurt see his smile. Then Blaine kisses him, gently, reverently.

“You too,” he replies, quiet. 

“You were so good for me,” Kurt whispers, tracing gentle fingers over Blaine’s brow, down his cheek. 

“Thank you sir,” Blaine says, and smiles slowly. 

Kurt smiles back, and they stay just there for a moment, grinning stupidly at one another in Kurt’s bright bedroom. Kurt feels so safe, and warm, and so deeply connected to Blaine. 

“I missed this so much,” he says. 

“Me too,” Blaine answers. Blaine kisses him again, slower this time, letting Kurt feel each warm glide of their lips against one another. “God, I love you.” 

Kurt hums happily and kisses Blaine in reply. And he keeps kissing and kissing Blaine until he feels a yawn coming on. “Nap?” he asks between kisses. 

Blaine hums in agreement, and tips them over to lay down. They scoot up the bed, twist around a little, and settle in with Blaine laying half on top of Kurt. Kurt’s hand comes to rest proprietary and warm on Blaine’s reddened ass, which makes Blaine give a contented little moan. 

They still have hours before anyone comes home. Kurt intends to make good on his promise to let Blaine suck his cock as much as Blaine wants. And after that, who knows—maybe they’ll give bondage another go, or maybe…Blaine had said something about putting on a show, hadn’t he…? 

Kurt snuggles in closer to Blaine, and breathes his scent in deeply.

*

When Burt and Carole return with Mr. and Mrs. Evans, Kurt and Blaine are laying out back on a big blanket. There’s a plate of sweet-smelling watermelon rinds off to the side, attracting a few lazy flies.

Earlier, the two of them fucked themselves into exhaustion, then relocated outside to resist further temptation as the evening wore on and the risk of adults returning home increased. They chatted and snacked, even made a few plans for the summer, but in the end they succumbed to the warm summer air. They’re deeply asleep, curled up together. Kurt lips are upturned slightly—he’s smiling in his sleep.

No one disturbs them until well after Finn and Sam have come home, when dinner has been cooked, silverware set out, glasses of water and wine poured. Then Kurt emerges from sleep to the sound of the screen door creaking open, the soft brush of footsteps on grass.

“Bud? It’s dinnertime,” Kurt’s dad calls. 

Kurt blinks himself out of a haze. It’s a gorgeous evening, dusk now, with fireflies all over the backyard. There’s a warm golden glow coming from the kitchen windows, and a low murmur floating through the screen door. It’ll be a long, talkative dinner, and a busy few days until the Evanses head back home. With Blaine in his arms, Kurt is a little reluctant to go inside at all. 

Then again, after today, they still have the whole summer ahead of them. 

And after that, the rest of their lives. 

A deep hope blooms in Kurt’s chest. He kisses Blaine awake, and as Blaine smiles into the kiss, he files the moment away as one of his very happiest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well folks, that's it for the main story! We've had a good run, huh? 
> 
> Please do take a few seconds to let me know what you thought! I really appreciate (and actually bask in) every single comment/flail/review/compliment/concrit/question/rec/bookmark/kudos/etc. So THANK YOU SO VERY VERY MUCH to everybody who has done any of that along the way! 
> 
> Going forward, I have at least one vignette that is set many years in the future in this verse--a sort of tiny sequel. And I have a few 'outtakes' of sorts--bits that were glossed over in the story proper that I mean to write out. I'm also thinking about opening prompts at some point, just because it might be fun? But no promises.
> 
> Please do tell me what you think, and let me know if sequel vignettes / outtakes / prompts / etc. sound intriguing to you! Hugs to you all; you're wonderful! <3
> 
> (Oh and, my tumblr is also thetimesinbetween, for those of you who didn't come from tumblr in the first place. :) )


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